The art of translation

Zoe had a round of days off school recently. The center she goes to has a park in their complex, but to keep the kids busy, they walked them to a different park. Zoe came back with blisters on her feet, and when I came to pick her up, she hobbled over to the car.

"I have splits all over!" she squealed.

I understood that she misunderstood someone who told her she had blisters. Later that night after a painful bath, ointment and Hello Kitty bandages all around the perimeter of her feet, I corrected her. "Not splits. BLISTERS." If we're gonna whine about it, let's get it right.

I tried to get her to wear slippers to the center the next day, but she wouldn't have it. OH, the peer pressure! What would the kids think! So, she struggled with a different pair of shoes and came home just a little more sore. More Hello Kitty bandages. We ran out of the small size and moved on to the big-kid size.

Over the weekend, we were out planting our flower beds, and she kept coming outside without shoes on. I kept shooing her inside, and 10 minutes later she would sneak back out barefoot. Yeah, kids, it DOES all come back around to bite you in the ass when you're a parent. My dad absolutely LOVES to sit back and chuckle and tell me, "See? See what you were like?"

So, after Zoe was outside for about the seventh time, barefoot, and complaining that she was stepping on something in the yard she found objectionable, I finally screeched at her: "You NEED to GO IN THE HOUSE and PUT YOUR SHOES on RIGHT NOW."


"But Mommy... I keep telling you... my bleachers hurt!"