We just dismantled the final baby gate. It used to live right here:
We have had one of these for as long as we can remember. We don’t really need it anymore. More often than not, it served, as do most things in this house, as a place to put stuff. So it was usually draped with jackets, wet towels, odd socks and the like. Now we are jettisoning it.
Last week, while I was coming to terms with the passing of the baby era, I was watching a basketball game with the boys. Actually, they were watching the NFL draft. I’ve made a lot of progress. I am now capable of watching and following all sorts of sporting events. I even have a vague clue of what is going on in a football game, which for a boorish sport is remarkably hard to follow. But watching this draft was a test. I suppose it’s like C-Span for sports nuts, but I think even that sounds sexier than the reality of it all.
When the draft was over I blinked and they were watching the end of a basketball game. I believe it was the LA Clippers. There wasn’t much time left on the clock, but I know better than to be fooled by that trick. Eighteen minutes on the clock = six hours of TV.
“Please let us stay up and watched the end!” they begged.
“Ok,” I yielded. “As long as you do something for me,” I said, looking right at Bennett.
“Anything!” he cried.
“Let me pop that.” I said, pointing to the tiny little blackhead that had been perched next to his nose, among a smattering of freckles, for a few weeks. I’d been stalking that blackhead, but he’d refused to let me anywhere near it.
Playing with your own skin is only so much fun, and M doesn’t let me anywhere near his blemishes any more. (Truth be told the man’s blemishes are few and far between. You can add good skin to the list of Geller genetic advantages.) Once I gave him a facial when we were in grad school. He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub as I applied a mask to his face. I think it was after I’d exfoliated but before I did any extractions.
“You do realize I’m not one of your girlfriends, don’t you?” he asked. (At that point I figured it wasn’t worth mentioning the Jane Austen movie marathon I’d planned for us.)
Anyway, I don’t need his random spots anymore. Because Bennett traded his for 20 minutes of an NBA playoff game. And it was awesome. I showed the boys my results and they were sufficiently grossed out/impressed, confirming my suspicion that I may actually have a 10 year old boy lurking within me.
I know that more blackheads are a few years away. But if I’m going to be leaving one era behind me, at least I can be jazzed about the next one.
Bring on the spots.