Just don't call me "late for dinner"

You might be wondering about the URL of this blog.

On the way to her new preschool this year Maggie pointed out a cyclist riding around Lake Harriet. She exclaims: "Look at the biker! She looks like Lisa!"
BioMom: "Yeah! And he even has a bag like Lisa's!"

They travelled on quietly.
About half way around the lake:
Maggie: "I call her John."
BioMom: "Who do you call John?"
Maggie: "Lisa."
BioMom: "Why do you call her John?"
Maggie: "Because she's my dad."

Clearly there's cognitive dissonance going on here. I guess I'm butchy in an urban-thirty-something sort of way. But not manly. I hate football and have an embarrasingly small tool collection (literally one screwdriver and a couple of hammers).

The transition to the new school had been noticeable. Maggie had regressed somewhat in the peeing-her-pants arena (more blogs to come on that, I'm sure. Conversations about potty training do wonders for the love life) and her exhaustion by 5 p.m. was palpable.

I figure she's negotiating a new environment. Gauging other kids' reactions to having two women pick her up from school rather than the usual mom/dad set. I imagine kids saying "Who's that? Is that your dad?" As far as I'm concerned she can call me whatever she wants. I'm lucky to have been called at all.