"Okay, pal, go get dressed!" The birthday girl hops off the couch and run down the hall.
Octonauts has just ended, so the Golden Weasel and I are going to run to the grocery store. It's a tradtion in our house that the birthday girl gets to pick her breakfast and dinner—and, oddly, make her own birthday cake, which has led to some VERY attractive cakes over the years, I can assure you—so we need to run and pick up the ingredients for this morning's feast. We also need to pick up saline so Top Management can put her contacts in, so she can go to yoga. No big deal: we've got plenty of time.
Nearly half an hour later I hear Dora and Boots singing, "We did it!" and I realize the Golden Weasel hasn't yet appeared. I find her in the bathroom, immaculately dressed in her trademark princess-meets-bag-lady style, slowly, methodically, happily brushing her hair.
Half an hour to get ready for a simple run to the grocery store. On her 7th birthday. Suddenly we're pressed for time and what was going to be a lesiurely stroll is turning into a stressful sprint.
I have seen the future...and I'm not sure I care for it.
This was so good. Why couldn't it have stayed like this? I don't understand.