When did THAT happen?
I've always been rather serious-minded. (Just ask Emily...)
I went through a silly phase in college, complete with overalls and bouncy balls, and giggling like a 5-year-old in the study hall in the Institute of Religion.
Then Jeremy and I got married, and the serious came back. I mean, we were married, and that is serious business, ahem-a-hem-a-cough-cough-burrragh-huumph.
At some point, Jeremy and I discovered we could stay up late, and do magical things while the kids were asleep, like eat yogurt with our fruit and raid the pantry for granola bars. It was a whimsical time.
This went on for quite some time.
Needless to say, we got fatter and more tired than we'd both like.
But, that didn't stop us from doing this night after night.
At some point, something happened.
We got old.
Suddenly, at night, I find myself watching the clock as the hands creep ever closer and closer to the nine o'clock hour, and I start getting that uncomfortable feeling that by staying up past nine-thirty we're committing a sin.
I have also found myself glaring at the thermostat, and poking the cool button ever lower.
Two years ago, we were at 68 degrees.
Then last year, 67.
This year, I stubbornly refused to let it above 66.
Heat costs money, you know. I won't spend another penny on heat.
And then I find myself staring disapprovingly into the sink where my children have thrown their half-eaten food, and start one of these things:
"When I was a kid, we ate everything on our plates because, gosh darn-a-dang-it-all, there wasn't anything else to eat! You ate or starved! And we also wove our own clothing, and walked upside down both ways to the concentration camp! This upcoming generation is just so darn ungrateful!"
I'd probably feel more sorry for my children if they weren't immune to my voice.
I've always dreamed that I'd be one of those sweet old people, with fluffy pink hair.
But considering how things are going at this point, my guess is I'm gonna be one cranky old wench.
And I'm okay with that.
I went through a silly phase in college, complete with overalls and bouncy balls, and giggling like a 5-year-old in the study hall in the Institute of Religion.
Then Jeremy and I got married, and the serious came back. I mean, we were married, and that is serious business, ahem-a-hem-a-cough-cough-burrragh-huumph.
At some point, Jeremy and I discovered we could stay up late, and do magical things while the kids were asleep, like eat yogurt with our fruit and raid the pantry for granola bars. It was a whimsical time.
This went on for quite some time.
Needless to say, we got fatter and more tired than we'd both like.
But, that didn't stop us from doing this night after night.
At some point, something happened.
We got old.
Suddenly, at night, I find myself watching the clock as the hands creep ever closer and closer to the nine o'clock hour, and I start getting that uncomfortable feeling that by staying up past nine-thirty we're committing a sin.
I have also found myself glaring at the thermostat, and poking the cool button ever lower.
Two years ago, we were at 68 degrees.
Then last year, 67.
This year, I stubbornly refused to let it above 66.
Heat costs money, you know. I won't spend another penny on heat.
And then I find myself staring disapprovingly into the sink where my children have thrown their half-eaten food, and start one of these things:
"When I was a kid, we ate everything on our plates because, gosh darn-a-dang-it-all, there wasn't anything else to eat! You ate or starved! And we also wove our own clothing, and walked upside down both ways to the concentration camp! This upcoming generation is just so darn ungrateful!"
I'd probably feel more sorry for my children if they weren't immune to my voice.
I've always dreamed that I'd be one of those sweet old people, with fluffy pink hair.
But considering how things are going at this point, my guess is I'm gonna be one cranky old wench.
And I'm okay with that.
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