Today is the first day I get to drive since having surgery a week ago. I must admit it was a little scary getting behind the wheel. Before I put the key in the ignition–which by the way, is a story in itself. Since I haven’t *used* the car in a week, I had NO idea where my keys were. Not being able to find your keys when you’re in a hurry to get the kids to school on time is an Epic Failure. Anyway, they were exactly were you wouldn’t expect them to be–in the car. FML

Anyway, I went over all the important steps. The gas is on the right. Check. Brake on the left. Check. R means reverse. Check. D means drive. Check. N means Not Going Anywhere But If You’re On A Hill You Will Roll Down It. Check.

I fastened my seat beat and said, “All right. Here we go.”

Harley buckled herself in tight to her car seat and we were off.

Hey. Whatdoyaknow. I could still do it.

And I was happy.

I noticed Harley was quietly staring out the window so I turned down the radio and asked, “So, anything you want to talk about?”

The sound of my voice must have broken the spell she was under because she answered, “Yes. I have a question.”

I smiled. “Great! What is it?”

“Do you shave your legs anymore?”

OK. Not exactly a question I was expecting, but whatever. “Yes. I still shave my legs.” Instinctively I reached down and felt the stubble on my right calf. It’s been at *least* a week since I’d shaved.

I looked at her through the rearview mirror. She seemed to be puzzled by my answer. “Why do you ask?”

“Well. Gran says she doesn’t have to shave anymore. That when you’re older the hair stops growing.”

What the hell?

Gasping. Gasping. Gasping.

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “Harley. Gran is in her 60′s. She’s *a lot* older than me. I’ve GOT hairy legs. I can STILL grow hair. In fact I can grow hair like nobody’s business. You wanna feel? Feel my legs. They’re super hairy. Go on. FEEL MY LEGS!”

I *may* have overreacted just a smidge.

I went on.

“AND…I’m not OLD. I’m in my 30′s and…”

Before I could say anymore she chimed in with, “BUT YOU’RE ALMOST 40. IN LIKE 4 MONTHS AND 10 DAYS YOU’LL BE 40.”

“Wait. Are you counting down to my birthday, Harley?”

She made a face. It was the face that says You Are The Dumbest Person I’ve Ever Met. “Duh, Mommy. I’m marking off the days on my calendar.”

“But why?”

God. How long does it take to drive to her fucking school? Can’t we BE THERE YET?

“Because my birthday is right after yours. And I’m gonna be 8. You know what that means don’t you?”

Wait. So this is not really about me after all? I find this a little disappointing.

“No. What does it mean?”

“It means I get to have a birthday party sleepover. Remember? You promised.”

I was now bored with this conversation. I liked it a lot better when we were talking about me being old and turning 40 and not being able to grow hair on my legs anymore.

We pulled up next to the school then.

“Yeah. Whatever,” I said, totally deflated.

“Awesome! See you later Mommy. Glad you remembered how to drive.” She got out of the car, slammed the door shut and waved as she rolled her backpack down the sidewalk.

Kids. They’re so self involved. It’s always Me, Me, Me.

I wonder where she gets it from. Oh yeah. Tommy.

Hey: Also, check me out over at AimingLow today. There’s a new story posted.

ok, here’s the deal. this week has sucked.

i really don’t know where to go from there.

oh, except to say that next week’s contest is this…

email me your story about the time your kid(s) embarrassed you the most. you probably have more than one story–pick the best one. the winner gets to keep my kids for a week while i go on holiday. or a $100 gift card to target. your choice. i would totally choose the first thing if i were you.

here’s one of my many stories.

i was in the grocery store with my two oldest daughters who were 4 and 3 at the time. there was a rather large person waddling, i mean walking, toward us when my four year old pointed and yelled, “you’re so fat i bet you can’t fit through the front door!” before i could smack her upside the head the three year old followed with, “i think you’re so fat you can’t fit in your GARAGE!”

really? do i need to go on? the important thing is we got out of there alive. turns out we could run a hell of a lot faster than that fatter than a garage person. seriously though? i wouldn’t have been able to describe it any better had i tried. not that i would. i’m totally down with fat people.

ps. not sure the gender of said fatter than a garage person.

send entries to shauna@shaunaglenn.com

xo