I am currently typing from the Dead Dog position. Sister to yoga’s zenful Downward Dog, Dead Dog resembles, well, a dog in the final stages of rigor mortis. All paws extended in the air, the Man Child is zooming toy cars up and down my shins, I think. I can’t feel my legs through the throbbing. He takes a break from Mommy Autobahn to stare in wonder at the slap-n-jiggle effect that is my midsection. It’s the magic of Wave Country. It’s a California King water bed inviting tiny feet to jump and pummel ’til the sides split. I’m counting my blessings that my fingers mostly work after my experiment with The Performance That Couldn’t. With my pinky’s last jittery flex, I take this opportunity to warn you. ES NO BUENO. ES NO DANCE-DANCE-TASTIC!
Let it be known, written in memorial blog posts as you
grieve spread the juicy gossip about my untimely death via Disney Channel, screen-printed on t-shirts as you gather ’round my porch for a candlelit vigil honoring the girl lost to idiotic delusions of her athleticism and flexibility:
Playtime killed the Parenting Star.