“A magical make-believe machine that can do anything you want it to,” she says. There’s nothing, in this particular moment, I’d like less. This requires a supervising adult and a pair of plastic safety glasses that press my regular glasses into my head in a painful manner, and entails me standing around reminding her to tighten the vise and keep both hands on the saw while a background soundtrack of hammering, the instructions of other parents, and an endless loop of Disney tunes also presses into my head. She considered it her job to feed and clothe me, make me go to school, drive me to appointments, and I turned out just fine.īut the girl doesn’t want to play with the exhibits, she wants to go to the tool shop. I’ll never be Mom of the Year, but look, my mom never played with me. Aren’t her needs supposed to be bigger than mine? I take my journal and magazines along with snacks. I want to shut myself in my office and work on my novel, far from puke and clacking toys, but then she’ll say of her childhood that her mom did nothing but sit in front of her computer all the time. Since her brother is sick and dad has command central on the couch, dispensing Tylenol and blankets and puke bucket and juice, that leaves me to drive her. The girl wants to go to the kids’ museum.
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