One day last week when Mother Nature decided to tease us with a nice day (and then immediately rescinded it, that bitch), Kate and I biked into town to get ice cream. I know those two activities are incongruent, but that is exactly why I do it. I figure that the biking cancels the ice cream consumption out, so I end up basically even. If you can convince yourself, that is all that matters, right? I hope so, because that is how I rationalize almost everything.
Since I don’t possess skill or the patience for assembling things, I decided to forgo hooking up the bike trailer for Kate. Instead, I buckled her into the seat that I had mounted on the back of my bike from last year. She wasn’t really thrilled with that plan, but I kept convincing her that those seats were for big kids and I needed her to ride in it so we could bike really fast. Who am I kidding? Fast? Whatever, she’s gullible and I was convincing enough that she bought it. Plus, her mind was on the ice cream so the seat didn’t seem like such a big sacrifice. About half way into town, I realized just how much she’d outgrown the seat. Her knees had permanently taken up residency in my butt.
In a teasing manner, with that really annoying sing-song-y mom voice, I say:
Oh Kate, you are getting sooooo BIG! Your knees are touching my butt!
In the same mocking sing-song voice, Kate reciprocates:
Oh Mommy, YOU are getting soooo BIG! Your butt is touching my knees.