Soccer practice, cereal, memory, and ego

Both boys rang in their fall AYSO seasons this morning at 8:30.  Nathan has graduated to a level where I don’t get to visit with him at all during the game.  Before, when he was idle for a quarter, he was able to sit with me.  Now, the teams are on the opposite sideline.  Childhood’s exit is a thousand tiny deaths.

So during some idle moments in the game this morning, I was thinking of things to blog about this evening.  I thought specifically about breakfast cereal, because there’s this Eggo Maple Syrup cereal the boys eat right now that tastes a lot like Waffleos, one of my childhood favorites.  I considered how our boys are totally unrestricted in what they can have, and how this is a direct reaction against how iron-fisted my mother was about it.

But I was certain I’d blogged about it before.  A quick search confirms that I did:  right here.

I’ve heard all my life that I have an excellent memory.  Part of that might be genetic.  I had a great, great aunt who memorized the entire Bible, if you can believe that.  Now you couldn’t say to her “what is John 4:7?” and get a reliable answer, but if you gave her John 4:5 and John 4:6, she could pick it up and keep humming.

And indeed, I do seem to remember more than most people—whether it’s conversations we’ve had, movies we’ve seen, things we’ve passed in the car, or whatever.

But it’s pretty egotistical for me to suppose any significant percentage of my readership is going to bust me on duplicated subject matter.  That’s an assumption that someone has read me extremely closely, and a few of you do, but most of you don’t.

I do feel fortunate to still have a pretty good grasp of everything I’ve written.  This is the 1,445th post here, and I’ve yet to happen upon an old one that I don’t remember at all.  I don’t expect that to ever happen, actually.

Anyway, so I think my mom might have tolerated us smoking cigarettes better than she did us eating sweet breakfast cereal every day.  Consequently, in the interest of jerking it violently back the other direction, the boys can have whatever they want.  I don’t think anyone’s going to finish that box of Cupcake Pebbles, though.  That may be the single most disgusting ready-to-eat food I’ve ever tasted in my life.

I don’t even make them finish one box before they open another one.

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