I woke up this morning singing “Ghetto Supastar.”
Much to everyone’s dismay.
Cheyenne: “Ug. Mom. I hate that song. Stop it. Worst song ever.”
Me: “How would you even know? You’re too young to know that song.”
Cheyenne: “I know! No teenager should know this song! But you sing it all the time. I know all the words.”
Me: “Quit being so dramatic. You can’t possibly know all the words.”
Cheyenne: “Ghetto Superstar. That is what you are. Coming from afar. Reaching for the stars. Run away with me. To another place. We can rely on each other. Uh-huh. From one corner to another. Uh-huh.”
Cheyenne: “Please. For our sanity.”
Me: “But you clearly haven’t learned the rap part yet!”
Not everyone appreciates the music of the late nineties. I guess it is sort of bad when my 4-year-old rolls his eyes at my singing. Whatever. I am undeterred.
Today it’s supposed to storm like nobody’s business, and then drop in temperature from 80 degrees to like, 20 degrees. And then we’ll get a winter mix that’s supposed to knock out power and make for difficult travel tomorrow. Seriously? How messed-up can April get?
Caleb and I went over this season’s ball schedule for Mia and Merrick. We were exhausted just thinking about it. Someday we’re going to form a league called “The Baseball/Softball League for Parents and Children Who Aren’t Stone-cold Crazy and Don’t Want to Devote Every Waking Hour To Practices/Games/Tournaments/and Formal Instruction That Costs Extra Money.”
Why? BECAUSE IT’S JUST A FREAKING GAME.
Not really sure what the organizers are thinking. I mean, if I’m tired of ball, I know the kids are tired. And we’re not even a quarter of the way through the season.
That is all.