Things were getting serious. My boyfriend had moved his goldfish into my apartment. I had returned from a long weekend to find that Jon had moved his dimestore pets from his place to mine. He was sheepish about this.
Christina likes pink. Given a choice, my five-year-old daughter will take the pink balloon, the pink panties, the pink baseball bat. And Christina likes her pink pink. Cerise, rose, fuchsia – none of the variations on the color pink will do it for her. She wants the real thing, powder puff pink, little girl pink.
My little son Peter likes money. He wants an allowance. Jon and I debated. Fifty cents a week? 75 cents? “Let’s not talk in cents,” said Peter, who is 6 1/2, pushing 7. “Let’s talk in dollars.”
Jury duty is a lot like softball. I’d rather not do it. I’d rather not sit through the whiplash case. I’d rather not stand there in right field, breathing dust. Yet something in me wants to be on the team. If there is choosing going on, I can’t help wanting to be among the chosen.