Be the cricket!

I need to slow it down this week. I was fast dancing all hyper and reckless -- so full of opinions! Now my feet are tired and I'm feeling inhibited. Time to switch tempo (think Lionel Richie's "Hello") and head to the imaginary punch bowl for a more chill blog post.

Cool.
I've talked a lot about how much I love where we live. It's a fabulous area with great people and fun things to do. There's a restaurant right in town called Christopher's that is unabashedly kid friendly (crayons, balloons, pudding cups), but with sophisticated menu choices and fantastic cocktails.

They also have lollipops for Bea. Unlimited lollipops.

Whenever there, we always see at least one other family we know, if not an entire room full of familiar faces. "Hey there, neighbors. How are the brussel sprouts?"

Last Tuesday, we went to Christopher's after both girls finished soccer practice. Even though it was not the weekend or even close to the weekend, I ordered the blueberry mojito. It is the best! I may talk a good game, but I'm not much of a drinker. Wine gives me a headache. Beer makes me bloated. Cocktails are nice, but usually too sweet.

Let me tell you, this mojito is perfect. It's fresh and seltzery and delicious. It goes down like a fruity, minty dream, then gives that warm, buzzy happy feeling that makes me gush love. "Hey you! You are great! So great! My family! Neighbors eating brussel sprouts! Our smiley waitress! So, so great!"

There's a Philly team on the bar tv, dimmed lights, clanging pots from the open kitchen, my kids in their soccer clothes, my coach husband in his, my sweet baby sucking her fourth lollipop. Blueberry, like my mojito. My magic mojito!

It's brief and fleeting, the lovely sensation that all the days of my life have led to this ideal, yet random, Tuesday. How lucky am I?

One evening I did splurge on two magic mojitos and was basically useless for tuck-in time. "Good night, girls, dad's on duty. Mom needs to sleep off her antioxidant high."

Crazy.
Squirrels are predictably erratic for sure. But in the fall, they turn insane. They are kamikaze nut chasers in a frantic race for survival. I've almost run over a darting squirrel about 100 times in the past few weeks. Surprisingly, I've managed to swerve or brake with mere inches to spare, though a quick death by wheel might be a relief to their tiny, stressed-out nervous system.

We have lots of trees in our neighborhood, meaning lots of crazy squirrels. I think it's funny how squirrels just do their thing and no one really pays attention. Why is there such a great difference between squirrels and, say, rats? You see a rat, you scream. You see a squirrel, you think, "cute and fuzzy critter!" 

It's perfectly acceptable to welcome fall with a squirrel sweater that reads "I'm nuts for you!" (Though I wouldn't recommend it.) No one, however, wears a sweater that says "Rats, I should have worn my squirrel sweater!" with a big rat picture. (If you can find one, I would totally recommend it.)

Same truth applies to bugs. If I spot a spider, I freak the freak out. Hate them. I saw one in the car the other day and I hunted it, sprayed it, flicked it out of the car, sprayed it some more, then squashed it and threw it in the ivy. When I go in the basement, I scan the floor with fear and apprehension. But wait! That's not a spider, it's a cricket. Crickets are perfectly fine! I think they may even be lucky! "Hop along, little lucky cricket!"

I guess the goal in life is to be the cricket, not the spider. The squirrel, not the rat.

But I'm still buying that rat sweater if it exists. Come on, crafty Midwestern moms on Etsy. Don't let me down!