It's funny the things you notice yourself doing as you get older. This afternoon, I went into the bathroom. (I'll pause here. I realize there's a large percentage of you going, "Oh no. Another bathroom story.")
Anyway, I went into the bathroom to tuck my shirt in. I simply slipped into one of the stalls, loosened my belt and slacks (since I'm now in my 30's, they're slacks, not jeans, right?), pulled my shirt tail out, repositioned it, and carefully placed it back in its assigned place. I then buttoned up, prettied myself in the mirror and went on my merry way.
This was concerning to me due to the fact that this resurrected memories of my father doing something similar. As a kid, I can remember my dad entering our kitchen after work and performing the same general set of steps in front of mom and everyone, while discussing what was for dinner as she slaved over something on the stove.
I can remember staring at him as his pants hit his knees thinking, "Why the hell is he dropping his pants in the kitchen?" and "Why are we talking about dinner? Pull your damn pants up!" Now I understand, and it appears that I now have something else with which to bond with my father. Thanks, dad.
I also noted this week that my perception on what constitutes a "crazy day" is changing as I get older. What I'm finding is that it takes a great deal more for a day to qualify as "crazy" now, with child, than it did a couple of years ago.
My mom informed my wife that she'd had a "crazy day" babysitting Grant a couple of days ago. Now for this term, "crazy," to qualify for Erin and me, there has to be an event requiring either an insurance claim or an ambulance. Otherwise, it ain't crazy.
What qualified as crazy for my dear, retired-other-than-babysittin' mom? Grant spit up on himself and then later she spilled a little milk on our kitchen floor (which is hardwood, and didn't therefore even require much cleaning.)
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