Please God, no more Dragon Tales

Dear PBS,
I understand that resources are tight for non-profits and that you need to have fund drives every other month to keep Caillou coming.

I understand that snippets of Celtic Woman and the allure of tickets to see Donald Trump at the Learning Annex must be a big draw for the Gold Coast gentlemen and North Shore twin set set.

But please, I beg of you, for all of us mommies who need a shower or to schedule a conference call or just a second cup of sanity in our days with our beloved and exhausting children, stop fucking with the Sesame Street schedule.

You're killing me ovah here.

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Spring. Seriously.

It is 10:39 a.m. and it is a glorious 60 degrees in sunny Chicago.

"What the hell?" you ask, "Sunny Chicago? In March? You've got to be kidding."

I kid you not. The high is 72 degrees. In March. Seriously. Just last week, we were scraping ice from our back steps and today, my toes are feeling wiggly for flip-flops.

But I'm smarter than that. And I know how easily a snowstorm can blow through April in this city. I dare not jinx the possibility of spring.

As I walked Lil E to co-op today, my mind fast-forwarded to afternoons at the park, leisurely walks to Starbucks, sitting on my back deck with a cup of coffee and my laptop while I look out over the trees and the neighborhood. Ahhhh...

Tomorrow, though, we will likely be back to our winter coats and fleece gloves. While I won't guarantee that my digging  out my favorite flip-flops, I will gladly shove my jacket into the stroller basket to feel a bit of breeze on the back of my neck as I walk along. Slowly, slowly along.

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What Mama Woods and I might just have in common

Lil E loves golf.

I've written about before, talked about it often and it is as close to my mind as the whiffle, foam and real golf balls scattered from corner to corner of our tiny apartment.

He's nearly 2-1/2, so this obsession with putters, fairways and lining up the right shot is either adorable or creepy. We think it's adorable. The old men staring at Bruce when he took him to the Golf Dome to hit some balls? They thought it was creepy. At least until Bruce explained that going to the Golf Dome was all the shorty's idea. And trust me, it is.

People assume we push it on him or turned him on to his passion for greens and irons with our own interest in golfing. Not so. I don't remember how it began, but it was early, and it involved rapt attention while watching (yes, actual watching) golf tourneys on TV. The boy has three sets of well-used clubs -- one plastic, one real junior set and one foamy variation for rounds of (just as good) miniature furniture golf.

Many conversations in our home begin like this:
Mommy, the Golf Dome is very important because...

Earlier this week, we were camped out on the couch after a long day (and me needing another giant dose of ibuprofen) when Lil E popped up, scurried over to his bag of clubs and said:
Daddy, shall we get some golf action going?

And just this morning as we rushed to get Lil E all ready for another day at mommy cult co-op, to get Bruce geared up for Mommy Parent of the Day duties and to get me feeling awake and snazzy enough to go to a downtown doctor appointment, we were also being directed by the Benevolent Dictator himself in a golf-centered scenario:
Daddy, I will be Tiger Woods and you will be the o'er golfer guy. Daddy, you will be Vijay Singh. Mommy, you be ano'er golfer guy too!

Two years ago, I would have been astonished to hear the words that follow coming from my lips:
I could be Ernie Els.

Especially to my toddler's response:
Ooooh! Wha' you doiiiiiing, Ernie Els? Where's your driver and your iron and your putter, Ernie Els?

And most definitely not leading myself further into the imaginary conversation with:
Have you ever been to the Golf Dome, Tiger Woods and Vijay Singh?

And so it is in our little pocket of the world. Snowy, 27 degrees, behind schedule, half-dressed, out of milk and all about golf.

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