I Spy

There are two types of parents: those who rise to the “I Spy” Challenge and those who say, “Ask Daddy.”
I Spy

On any given day, I can hardly find my keys (same place every other time). So I’m not the best parent to solicit help in finding “three flags, a flamingo, a surfin’ fella, a small steering wheel, and a fancy umbrella” at the end of a long day, especially a heat advisory day, complete with jungle thunderstorms, to kick off a NYC summer.

Yet somewhat surprising since I Spy so much in real life, way more than oblivious Daddy who will usually respond with “Huh?” when I ask, “Did you see that?”

I Spy a quiet, serene mama sitting in our music class, while the kiddies bang away on their drums, triangles, and cymbals. I am wearing my sweaty infant and trying to cover his ears after his glassy eyes have no choice but to succumb to his morning nap. I am pleading with my toddler to please listen to the teacher instead of jumping around with a little buddy he made all on his own. I Spy small earplugs in Serene Mama’s ears! Wait, THAT IS ALLOWED? I, with my supersonic hearing, could have done that ALL ALONG when toddler turbulence hits?

I Spy another mama (or nanny) crossing Queens Blvd., strolling a toddler girl. The little girl is carrying a huge rolled up wad of cash in her bare fist. I want to warn her with my characteristic, “Uh-oh, watch out!” but for once, I leave it be. (Note to self: Walk their route tomorrow and scan the black asphalt.)

I Spy a short-torso’d, slight man in office attire, walking behind us, screaming into his cell phone, “…sex?…sex? Was she a Boston Six or Beer Goggles Six?” Curious what a Boston Six is. His convo grossed me out as I rushed home with my two, still-innocent, males, but I, too, have been guilty of talking loudly on the phone in public, on gross-to-overhear topics like coaching girlfriends on how to spot quality cervical mucus for babymaking.

I Spy our friendly, androgynous Malaysian waiter/waitress who leans into Kevin and asks, “Where are you FROM?” Kevin recognizes The Look and proceeds to answer, “Korea,” just to save time, even if he was born in Flushing, NY. He/she responds with, “Are you here on holiday then?”

“Oh, no, we live here!”

“Oh, okay! Then WHERE ARE YOU FROM?”

“OH! Forest Hills. Er, here. Few blocks away.”

Script. Flipped.

As I finish typing this, I Spy our DVR with our delicious, weekly treat of the worst yet most enjoyable programming (“The Bachelorette” and “Mistresses”). I Spy a good time.

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