Next time you’re at Target, stop by the camping aisle. They have tiny models of the tents and sleeping bags they stock, and they’re too cute for words. They’re just like the full-sized tents, except tiny! They have tiny little bug screens and tiny little doors and real zippers and everything. I’m completely infatuated. Looking at them makes me happy.

Photo courtesy of a random eBay auction

Note: In writing this post, I made a concerted effort not to use a hideous adjective that has found its way into my vocabulary. Despite all attempts to oust said word, it hangs on with viral tenacity. At some point in February, I spontaneously started referring to small things as baby-size. It was embarassing, to say the least, but once you develop a verbal tic, it’s hard to shake it off. It’s kind of like “like.” After I had explained my dilemma to Alan, we began having conversations like this:

alan: let me just ask one question
kiki: ok
kiki: So…
alan: This is a large font
kiki: yes
alan: this is a medium font
kiki: yes
alan: this is a ____-sized font
kiki: OH MAN
kiki: TOTALLY GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS
alan: what word could I put in there to correctly express its size?
kiki: so going to kick your ass
alan: it’d be nice if the word was somehow related to the growth of humans
kiki: hahahaha you are a maniac
alan: something like ’small child-sized’ but something shorter
kiki: so kicking your ass
alan: can you think of any term?
alan: kid-sized would be okay
kiki: get the hell out of here before i kick your ass
alan: but still, i want smaller
kiki:
alan: pipsqueak-sized sounds old timey
alan: hmmmmm

My mom knows how to spice up the mundane with an extra spoonful of fun. Either that, or she has a repressed gambling streak. One way or the other, our days abound with contests, bets, and physical feats. When we’re driving in the car, listening to the radio, my mom will suddenly announce, “A nickel to the first person who can tell me who’s singing this song!” Depending on the contents of the coin holder, sometimes it’s a quarter. We also do a lot of betting. On a long trip, she’ll ask each of us, one by one, “What time do you think we’ll get home?” Once she asked what time it would get dark, and as the clock ticked closer to our guesses, we had to debate the exact definition of dark.

Anyway, tonight I was online with her credit card in hand, trying to find a deal on a camping backpack my sister needs. When I was done, I leaned over the railing on the second floor landing and peered down at her on the couch. “Would it be terrible if I just dropped your card over the railing so I wouldn’t have to come downstairs?” I ask.

“Throw it to me,” she replies.

“I don’t want to hit you,” I frown.

“Make it land right here,” she insists, patting her stomach.

“I don’t want to slice your eyeballs,” I fret.

She covers her eyes with her fingers.

“What if I hit Loki?” I continue, staring down at the cat beside her.

“Guess you’ll have to be accurate.”

Frisbee-style, I chuck the card over the railing. It bounces off the arm of the sofa and ricochets across the floor. “Oops.”

“Here, try again,” my mom offers. She picks up the card and flings it wildly up at me. Like a maple seed helicopter, it spirals crazily back down. She picks it up again and throws it like a ninja star. It sails over the railing and clatters onto the bathroom tiles behind me. “I think it’s in your bathroom. Hopefully it’s not in the toilet.”

Obligingly, she lies back down on the couch, and I aim again. I throw the card carefully and it sails toward her, but at the last possible moment, it veers off to the side, onto the rug.

“Should we do it again?” my mom asks. “It was closer that time.” She pauses. “Then again, there’s still some magnetic strip left on this card, so maybe we should quit while we’re ahead.”

I love my mom.