My Saturday nights used to be very different. As I sit here and write this a flood of memories comes rushing back. It is eleven o’clock on a Saturday and I have been in my pajamas for close to two hours now. There was a time where my evening wouldn’t even begin until eleven on a Saturday. There was a time when, on a whim, we jumped in the car and ended up in Las Vegas—twenty-four hours away. There was another night we talked ourselves into a rooftop party and toasted our slick talking with champagne; on someone else’s dime, because free drinks always taste better.
We stayed up late and we woke up later. We went interesting places and met interesting people; at least they seemed interesting at the time… I have the tendency to make “new best friends” when I drink. We were young and vibrant and each upcoming weekend held the endless promise of a good time (even if they didn’t always end up that way.)
We played kings, we played circle of death and we played quarters; drinking whatever cheap beer was on sale. When we decided that we were too mature to bounce money across the table we switched to a more grown-up game—“drinking” Trivial Pursuit. (The rules are simple, if you miss the pie piece you have to take a shot, if you get it right then everyone else has to take a shot. By the end of the game NO ONE feels smart.)
We were young, we were dumb and we had a lot of fun.
Flash forward several years and now I am sitting on my couch, trying to stay awake past 10:30 on a Saturday night. I spent the evening hanging out with my three year old and my husband; just your typical, ordinary evening. Not that I am complaining, I love my family and I love the time we spend together. Every now and then I am just struck by the contrast in my life as it is now, and how it used to be.
After dinner it was bath time for the monster, but before she could head for the bathroom she had to say goodbye to the ornaments on the Christmas tree. I am sure it makes sense to a three year old. She looked at me and said, “Fie meese turks eesh.” Again, I think it makes sense to a three year old.
“Five means fish eat?” I asked as I helped her into the bathtub.
“No. Fie meese turks eesh,” she repeated.
Now usually she is pretty clear when she talks, and most of the time I can understand her. Even when she is not so clear I can usually speak toddler. But some nights I get a little rusty and tonight was one of those times. Thus started the new game we play on Saturday nights, Toddler Translations.
Fight me, wish heat?
Flies eat goose wheat?
Flight wings with sweets?
“Five means roast beef?” my husband yelled from the kitchen; wishful thinking from Mr. Drive Through Menus on the Brain.
My daughter shot me a look that said, “My parents are idiots” before yelling “NO! FIE MEESE TURKS EESH.”
“Five means twist east?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, obviously exhausted by her parents idiocy.
I looked at her trying to find meaning in the phrase, five means twist east. She smiled back at me as if she had just said something completely profound.
It was not the first Saturday night that a half-naked, incoherent person sitting next to me thought they were the next Confucius. I guess the more things change…
The moral of this story is:
Things will change as you start to age
It’s time to let it go, just turn the page.
So although your partying has greatly decreased
You’ll giggle as your toddler says: Five Means Twist East.
I don’t know what it means either. Any ideas?
a life just ordinary 