Colleen Elio, T-shirt Designer, Outraged Mother.
I’ve decided I need to design t-shirts. I think a lot of parents would buy a baby shirt that reads, “Don’t touch this baby.” But my best creation is going to be a t-shirt that I’ll call “The Reagan”, which will appeal to a small audience, but believe me-- parents of children named Reagan will buy them in multiples. Here’s what it’ll say:
1. Yup, just like the president.
2. Yeah, same pronunciation.
3. No, I’m not kidding.
4. Yes, we are really going to call her that.
5. Yes, we’ve seen “The Exorcist”, but thanks for bringing it up.
6. Well, I’m sure she thinks YOU are “unusual,” too!
7. You think that’s weird? We’re naming the next one Nixon!
Ah. Well, now that I’ve had my fill of spewing my caustic attitude at the masses for today, I’ll go back to my usual pontificating on the perfectness and hilarity of my children.
Connor’s having a great day because he got a new superhero action figure, someone from the Justice League called Aquaman. He seems to have misunderstood, though, because he thinks the superhero’s name is Awkward Man. He can’t seem to figure out what super powers would go along with that title, but he’s trying.
Rory is speeding like a bullet train toward the big 0-3 next Wednesday. I got the biggest compliment from my grandmother today (in the form of a back-handed, are you SURE you know how old your kids are?); she said, “he CAN’T be turning only three! He talks like an old man. No, he seems much older. Maybe he’s turning four?” We’ve checked the birth certificate to be sure we weren’t victims of alien abduction time lapse; he’s definitely turning three.
Riley Kate got a haircut again today to work toward our family goal of no mullets in 2006. It vexes me, how children’s hair grows at different rates on different parts of their head. If you’re not diligent at trimming the bottom, you’ve got a kid sporting a mullet faster than you can say “feather the sides!”
Reagan is wearing one of my two favorite shirts that her godmother bought her, which I feel were manufactured with her in mind. One says “Perfect” and the other says “Wonderful.” Truer words were never emblazoned on a child’s chest. My little Gipper has driven me to raptures of maternal blubbering these days, with her huge grins and winning ability to vomit on me but make it feel like a gift. Ah, babies. They’re like potato chips. You can’t have just one.
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