It's been a week of bold statements. Brad and I were discussing art the other evening (He got tired of hearing about last night's re-run episode of "The Kardashians"). It was the age-old question: Why are reproduced prints of paintings so expensive? Isn't a print just a fancy-shmancy poster? I was growing tired of this conversation as Brad mentioned his mother's Thomas Kinkade collection. I paused in the middle of a crowded mall parking lot and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Thomas Kinkade is the Nicholas Sparks of the art world!" Brad felt that my philosophic observation brought this particular conversation topic to a close.
It was Brad's turn for a bold statement. Entire sonnets could be composed on his chosen topic: Chlo, the cutest little dog on the planet. "Come look at Chlo," Brad called yesterday morning. Naturally, the entire family scrambled to rank the adorability scale of our little dachshund. Brad beamed as she sat on the floor beside her empty foot bowl. "See," he exclaimed, "it looks like Chlo fell out of the cute tree and hit every branch on the way down." He was right. She did look pretty cute.
The next bold statement caused quite a ruckus. Having slept with my hair braided back, I awoke with the wild tresses attributed to beach models. Pleased, I trekked off to school accompanied, as usual, by Sydney. A small band of 4th graders greeted us at the classroom door. I have a strict policy of NEVER altering my physical appearance during the school year as my self-esteem cannot handle the "out of the mouths of babes" utterances. Today could have served as the poster child for that habit. One of my little darlings, lacking a censor button, tipped her head up at me sympathetically to say, "Oh, Mrs. Mosiman...bad hair day?" I gently chided her rudeness while I wrestled with my key. Sydney, however, stared at my 4th grader in angry horror. I hustled us in the room and then realized that a bigger problem was approaching. The new arrival had committed my entire wardrobe to memory (Don't be too impressed, that actually didn't take a great deal of effort.) "Mrs. Mosiman!" she squealed last week, "You wore that sweater at Open House in October!" "Yes, thank you, darling," I responded grimly. With my wild, windblown hair, I knew that today, I was going to be in trouble. But with Syd on the defensive edge, I worried that my 4th grader would be in MORE trouble. Here it comes...I took a breath. "Mrs. Mosiman, your hair is so big today." I glanced at my squinting senior, who was gritting her teeth. The reference to the Big Bad Wolf was not lost on me as Sydney began to huff and puff. I escorted Sydney to the door, the better for her NOT to hear the next five commentaries regarding her mother's hair. I grabbed an elastic band for a quick ponytail so as not to distract from the rest of the day's studies; having again learned another valuable lesson. Don't ever get between a daughter and her mother's hair.
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