parenthetically whimsical

Time.  Where does it go?  People often wonder the question aloud flippantly.  Sometimes the question is posed whimsically.  As with all things, the consideration I have on a topic is pretty much (completely) dependent upon my mood (emotional state and/or is Griffin House or AC/DC playing...). 

On my drive back to the Fort from the D-train earlier today, in between lamenting over the Tribe's non-existence again in the ALC playoffs and someone slamming into my 2-month old car with a grocery cart full of ice picks, I began whimsically trying to locate the time.  Am I seriously already 40?  Is my baby girl really going to look at a college next week?  Are my parents of the age that I used to think was like, a HUNDRED?   

There was no complaining, only contemplation.  Just thinking about where things stand, as they say.  And after realizing in short order that I am simply thankful for life's current stance, I started reminiscing. 

Great.  Another one of these kind of posts, you ask all rightly so-ish?  In my defense, YOU try and box it out with those little bastards inside my head who undeniably know sentimentality is my biggest weakness, yet refuse to become hard-hearted, indifferent, or god forbid, pragmatic. 

When I care about something, or more accurately, someone, I can remember to a frightening extent all kinds of granular details.  I can tell you what they were wearing on a particular day, a sentence they uttered under their breath when I was pretending not to listen, an email exchange, the weather on any given day we spent together, etc. 

And so it was earlier this afternoon when I remembered “Chip” - (please) - a teddy bear Joe gave to Chels the day she got her wisdom teeth taken out and her entire, ginormous face looked exactly like a Chipmunk.  (We grew up with an Alvin, so she went straight for originality).

I remembered Chip because Liv is getting her wisdom teeth extracted this Friday.  Can’t wait.  The only other time she’s been under general anesthesia was when she was in second grade and had her tonsils (and adenoids, but I refuse to use the clearly man-derived acronym abbreviation) removed.  As my sweet baby girl was awakening, she flew into a fit of rage befitted for an angry, fire-breathing dragon protecting the castle’s virgin princess as she is moronically waiting for her stupid knight in that cliché of a freaking tower…wait, where was I going with this?  Oh, right.  I’m totally looking forward to it.

All of it.  When the time is right.  (Which is a good song by Griffin House.)