Today, we headed to our local Target (do you know people who call Target Tarjay? I know people who call it Tarjay but I just call it Target because I like to keep it old school, as I'll elaborate later on). My geeky, dreamy husband wanted to buy a tennis racquet so that I can beat his booty this summer in love matches and by "love matches", I mean tennis matches. Before we found it, though, we found this:
Your eyes aren't deceiving you. That's a life size, plushy Yoda with wispy white hair hanging out in a Target basket with our sleepy son. Mr. C. pulled it off the shelf and Maxwell fell in love. He squealed, threw his hands up, and all but kissed his new green friend. After seeing this reaction, a laughing Mr. C. let Yoda ride in the cart with Max for the next fifteen minutes, after which I pulled Yoda out when Max was looking the other way. This, coupled with the fact that Maxwell tried to pull down all of the Star Wars books at the book store the other day, leads me to the assumption that in ten years, I'm going to have to gently break it to him that "the force" is not actually a force at all, but a mind trick in a fictional parallel universe.
Which reminds me of the Wimpy Kid books by Jeff Kinney. Did anyone else's stomach hurt from laughing when Greg Heffley tries to change the channel on the TV with his mind? I think I've seen my brothers do that too many times to count. (I'm looking at you, Joshua). Which also reminds me that Mr. C. and I have a working list of children's series to eventually add to our home. We already own the Wimpy Kid series. We love them; not as much as I love Harry Potter but more than I love Percy Jackson.
And now I'm completely off track.
As I was saying earlier, I like to keep it old school. Which is why, around the time I abandoned Yoda among the children's bicycle helmets (sorry, Jameson, if you find a Yoda by the bikes sometime tonight. It was me.), I looked for the third love of my life that I know I will never own. Hello, $200 bicycle. I love you.
Which is when my delightful husband told me that for his graduation present, he'd decided not to go on a weekend trip but to buy family bicycles instead. Maybe I would have convinced him a weekend trip would be more fun or more memorable in any other case, but for the past year, we've been looking at this bike each time we come to Target... not that we would have bought it last year, because I would have looked like a pregnant hippopotamus since I weighed about 55 pounds more than I do now. But now? Now I can ride a bike without looking hippoish! And instead of a weekend full of memories, this bike will serve as a memory maker for the next five years for all of our family bicycle outings that I am currently imagining and that I was imagining in the store, which naturally meant that I positioned myself on the bike and started riding around, checking out Radio Flyer wagons for Maxwell and asking Mr. C. if a Radio Flyer counts as a bike since he's too little to peddle and wagons have wheels. Mr. C. said maybe which in this case means no because Maxwell's bike is actually going to be a bike trailer hitched to one of our grown up bikes.
Which means this: Next week, I am getting a grown up bike.
A grown up bike. I am a grown up and I will be riding a bike like this with my little children on Thursday afternoons after they get out of school with the littlest babe strapped down in a bike trailer, just like my mom and dad did with me, only I probably won't make my children put bright orange flags on their bikes. I'll probably make them put on two... maybe three.
Mr. C. and I are grown up parents at the age of 24. I love that. I love that we are keeping our family old school by marrying young, having children young, and setting out for more education a few weeks after Mr. C. receives his bachelors degree, all while trying to do the best we can and figure things out together.