Pre-Summering

First of all, congratulations to the Damien Memorial School Class of 2013. Thanks for a great year in the classroom and a whole bunch of memories outside of it.

It's a nice try, but just because something is blue and orange doesn't mean I'm going to automatically buy it... for you.

It’s a nice try, but just because something is blue and orange doesn’t mean I’m going to automatically buy it… for you.

But see, that’s kind of the problem. It used to be that Sunday on the lawn of the Blaisdell was the official end to our school year. In the last few years, though, things have been rearranged – for matters or school days, from what I understand – so that underclassmen finals take place starting tomorrow. Psychologically, this is terrible.

After nearly a decade of being conditioned to believe that the Sunday before Memorial Day is the end, I am having trouble adjusting to the fact that it’s not. I have roughly 50 Frankenstein essays and 50 junior final exams to deal with before it’s officially summer. I suppose however, it could be worse.

Madison’s sick again. She’s got a runny nose and I think she’s losing her voice. But  I think she’s fascinated with how gravelly and hoarse he voice sounds, so she keeps talking to hear herself. This will eventually lead to her being completely inaudible which will in turn result in joy in the Higa House.

"It's not too blurry, dad."

“It’s not too blurry, dad.”

We took a brief shopping trip yesterday afternoon. While Lynnette busied herself in the Coach Store, Madison and I occupied ourselves. Since the Coach Store plays music and Madison dances whenever she hears music, I brought my phone out to snap a few pictures just in case she entered the zone. Instead, Mad asked to use my phone to take pictures. I tried to have her take a picture of us together in the mirror, but she kept moving. Finally, she urged me out of the shot and insisted on taking a picture herself. It took a her a few tries, but she finally achieved her first selfie. In public, no less! Now, I know that this kind of behavior might be considered dangerous, but I feel I simply chose between the lesser of two evils. Better my daughter take pictures of herself and dance around the Coach Store than actively look for things to purchase in the Coach Store.

Aside: Last week while we were at Ala Moana, Lynnette bought a pair of slippers from the Slipper House, which would soon close its doors forever. The slippers Lynnette purchased where designed to approximate the look of Tory Burch ones. She’s worn them twice. Both times, we’ve interacted with women who have worn the genuine article. Lynnette and I now refer to her slippers as “Cory Burches.” So yesterday when she purchased a pair of slippers from the Coach Store, she said three things in order to justify the purchase: 1. They’re on sale. 2. They’re actually pretty comfortable. 3. It’s Coach, not Goach.

In honor of the Damien Memorial School Class of 2013.

In honor of the Damien Memorial School Class of 2013.

Madison orders ice cream the same way Lynnette and I used to order drinks at the bar: something with a little something-something and hurry it up, will ya?

Madison orders ice cream the same way Lynnette and I used to order drinks at the bar: something with a little something-something and hurry it up, will ya?

We had dinner with Lynnette’s aunt and uncle and their daughters because Chelsea – the younger of the two – is in town for a few days. It’s been some time since we’ve seen her, and then of course we’ll see her again in two weeks when we’re in California. After that, it’ll probably be a while. That’s always how these kinds of things work. Anyway, after an amazing dinner at Kunio, we all picked into Baskin-Robins for dessert. Madison sprinted out ahead of us and shoved her way into the ice cream parlor. She never does that. By the time we caught up with her, she was standing on the metal rails next to the freezers. She was on the hunt for her beloved cotton candy ice cream. “They have it!” she shouted. Before I could confirm with my own eyes, Madison accosted me and said “Lift me up, dad!” “Why?” I asked. “So I can see the toppings,” she said, wearing an expression of weariness.

That’s the worst. Sometimes, when she’s talking to me and frustrated or angry, she’ll punctuate her statements with “dad.” For example if she is in a fine mood, and I pick up something that belongs to her, she might say “That’s mine!” However, if she is angry, or I have some how irritated her, she is likely to shout “THAT’S MINE, DAD!” It’s basically the inverse of when my mom used to use my full name when I was growing up and how my friend Marcie used to do the same thing in college. In both situations, I knew I was in deep shit.

I’m the adult here! How did it come to this?

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