We were running late. Again. Since having kids, I’m late to everything, I’m so late, I’ve begun to change the definition of late.
Sitting at a stop light, willing it to turn green I looked over at the SUV next to us and saw a huge, cinnamon-colored dog that looked like a chow on steroids. The dog’s hind legs were on the back seat and his front paws rested comfortably in the front seat.
Naturally, seeing this freakishly sized dog, I point it out to the kids. “Guys, look over there at that dog. It looks like a bear.”
They peered out the window and Logan said “That’s huge!!”
My mind wandered elsewhere and I heard myself mumble a response of some sort.
“Mom?” Logan asked.
“Yeah?” God, I hope the other parents are late for swim class.
“What’s a big S dog?”
“What do you mean?” I admittedly was only half-listening to him.
“A big S dog.”
I focused my full attention on him. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“You said it was a big S dog, what is that?”
“I don’t know Logan, I’m not good with different breeds of dogs, so I doubt I said an S dog.”
Then it hit me. In my response to his commentary on the dog, I must have mumbled that’s a big ass dog.
I chuckled. A big ass dog.
“Oh, an S dog. Yes, well, that’s just a big dog.”