The past few days have been an exercise in what could go wrong, will go wrong. And even those things that don’t go wrong will be fraught with obstacles so as to eat up most of your time. Make you rip the hair from your head. And cause you to drink straight out of the wine bottle. Okay, maybe I only fantasized about the last one because WHO KNOWS where the bottle opener is in this kitchenless house.
Let me detail the problems for you, so you can share some of my pain:
1) Cabinets on one wall did not fit in the space. How that could possibly have happened, I have no idea. In the end we were able to take one cabinet out of the run and have them fit. But I am not thrilled with the layout now. Not much I can really do about it though since I can not magically make my wall longer.
But this lead to another problem…
2) Sink cabinet is off centered to the window. Not completely off where someone might think it was done that way on purpose, no off just enough that it is obviously a mistake.
That lead to:
3) Moving the window over six inches.
Which meant:
4) The light outside the window that was centered in between the window and the backdoor had to be moved over.
And then:
5) The outside siding had to be redone.
And of course:
6) The interior wall had to be resheetrocked.
And also:
7) The light over the sink had to be moved and centered.
And the kicker to the entire thing:
8 ) When we went to put the sink into the cabinet, it was too big. Even though we ordered the cabinets and sink from the same place. We had to return it and scramble around for a new sink to fit the space. We found one that cost over twice as much as the original and as an added bonus was a royal pain in the butt to install.
Those were only the issues we faced on that one wall of the kitchen.
I took the photo above of my husband cutting out the new hole for the sink and he gave me “the look” right after. The look that says “take my photo again and I might strangle you with the camera strap.” I reminded him that one day we would look back on it and it would be funny.
That day isn’t today. I’ll let you know when it happens.
I realize that at football practice you get hot running around with all of that gear on.
I realize that it must have looked really cool when a couple of the kids pulled off their helmets and poured their water jugs over their heads to cool off.
I realize that you wanted to do it too. Why wouldn’t you? Who wouldn’t want to pour water over their head?
But my darling son, fruit of my loins, did it not occur to you as you dumped your half gallon jug over your head that you had gatorade not water.
I mean I realize that you think you live in a sitcom. And it was sort of funny when you stuck your tongue out and shook your head so gatorade came flying off your hair, and you said, “Mmmmm refreshing!” But son, we were all laughing AT you, not with you.
Then I had to drive you home in my car and you were dripping sticky gatorade everywhere. Next time you are walking home.
The last game of the season was on Tuesday. The other team didn’t show up. So the boys played a scrimmage game with some of the Dads, the umpire, and a few other older kids who were there. Those are the games that always seem to be the most fun. You are reminded why you agreed to drive them all over hell’s half acre every day.
After the “game” we had a cook out to mark the end of the season. The boys all ate their weight in hotdogs and junk food. Then they grabbed their stuff and went to the small Little League field and had their own homerun derby. A few short years ago they struggled to hit the balls, now they can hit them over the fence at will.
The sun was going down and we lit some latterns under a pavillion, the parents all sitting around chatting. We have spent five seasons sitting together. Our little boys are now bigger than us.
*****
I had to go to the town hall to get birth certificates for my boys who are playing football. The photocopied versions I handed in were not acceptable. Honestly, I never realized that I did not have the official sealed versions.
My 13 yr old and 3 yr old were in the car with me. I pulled up to the town hall and before I could even turn the car off, my oldest said, “I’ll stay here. Can you leave the radio and air conditioner on?”
He apparently has not heard about the price of gas. I offered up the choices of sitting in the hot car in silence with all the windows rolled down or coming in with me. I am sure I don’t have to tell you what he chose.
Meanwhile my 3 yr old unbuckled his car seat and spent the entire time I was negotiating with my 13 yr old screaming, “I coming wif you, Mommy! I coming wif you, Mommy!”
I went inside with Miles, where he wanted to “help” me with everything. He wanted to open the doors. He wanted to push the buttons. He wanted to ride the elevator even though we were already on the correct floor. To which I said, ‘Why the hell not!’ What do I have to do that is so important it can’t wait five minutes for an elevator ride.
I don’t know if it is because I was young and selfish when I had my first children, or if it is because I am so acutely aware of the passage of time now, but the “help” doesn’t bother in the least anymore. I inwardly grimmace at how rushed and impatient I used to be. At three years old I am still the light of his life. He wants to go with me everywhere. He frequently tells me how much he loves me and grabs my face with his chubby hands, or is it my chubby face with his hands?
All too soon he will prefer to wait in the car. Riding the elevator up and down alone just won’t be as much fun.
This little farm backs up to the football field. My younger kids love going over to the fence and playing with the goats. They learned this week that there is a low votage electrical fence inside of the wooden one.
Of course they had to keep touching it with their hands. Clearly they do not learn as quickly as the goats.
The most popular channels at our house are Discovery, History, Nikelodeon, and Disney. Sometimes Miles has a hard time keeping them straight. But just because I haven’t seen SpongeBob hosting an episode of Dirty Jobs doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.
Three Year Old: Mom, how fast do the Cheetah Girls run?
Me: I don’t think they run so much as sing, baby.
Three Year Old: They are CHEETAH GIRLS. How fast do they RUN? (Said with extra loud emphasis so that my feeble brain could comprehend the obvious question.)
Me (sensing there is no point in arguing): Very fast. I think they run very fast.
Because otherwise you will feel ill. And possibly have an aversion to pasta, sausage, tomatoes and broccoli for the rest of your life. And that would be very, very sad.
Or at the very least they will send you accessories to match your orange jumpsuit.
Me: My kids are driving my nuts today! Her: Join the club.
Me: Was there some sort of edict that went out that us parents were not aware of that said, today is act like a little asshole day?
Her: Yes that must be it.
Me: You would not believe what my 7 yr old is doing… I swear he is begging me to strangle him.
Her: I hear him. I will testify in court on your behalf.
Me: You are such a great friend.
Her: I’ll tell the judge. He was begging for it.
Me: I love you.
*************
Her (friend without a blog, yes they do exist. Like unicorns): So we were driving home from vacation and my son was throwing up the whole way.
Me: Oh yuck, we had that happen recently too. It was so horrible.
Her: We kept having to pull over. Except at one point on the highway there was no shoulder and we had to give him a McDonald’s bag.
Me: Ewwwwwwww. We luckily had beach buckets in the van.
Her: It smelled so bad. And it was leaking. And the other kids were all complaining. So we threw it out the window.
Me: I’m not laughing at you. I swear.
Her: All the cars behind us were honking at us. Then they drove up and gave us the finger.
Me: You polluter! Ruining our environment with your breeding and littering!
Her: I like to think Mother Earth would forgive me. Being a Mother and all.
******
Update: Geez people, you have weak stomachs. It’s not like a photographed the meal INSIDE a McDonald’s bag. That would be gross. Funny, but gross.
But I get the hint, I have removed the photo and link. I’ll put them back up in a different post. Away from the vomit story.
My husband and I have been having a knock down, drag out fight, heated debate discussion about allowing kids to go to a playground or park unsupervised to play.
I am not going to tell you what side of I am on, until after the poll. But I want to clarify:
We are talking about your average suburbs. Not going to meet friends for a scheduled activity. We are talking solely getting on a bike and riding over to a local park or playground to play with no adult accountable.
So after asking everyone I know personally, people who agree my husband is crazy, I am throwing it out to all of you.
This isn’t a great photo, I know that. It is blurry. It is was late at night so the photo is too dark. And yet I love it. Sometimes the technical aspects of a photo come second.
This photo sums up this kid. After over two hours of practice, non-stop running, having his “brains squashed” in his helmet (his words), and now running sprints, he is still smiling. If I could bottle his terminal happiness I would be able to put all the anti-depressant manufacturers out of business and make millions.
Over the past week I have noticed many of the boys on my younger son’s football team coming to practice with their hair shaved off. One day they have long hair, the next they have none.
I have never really understood the whole notion that short hair is cooler than long hair, maybe because I have never really had short hair,save the unfortunate “pixie” cut that my mother gave me when I was four years old. Not sure I havefully recovered from that trauma. As a matter of fact, I have had the identical hair cut for 38 years.
Friday there were two long haired boys left.
My 9 yr old was one of them. He has been growing his hair for awhile. I have occassionally asked him what the look is that he is going for and he had no real answer. Other than he will know when he gets there. Fair enough. I am not a huge fan of long hair on little boys, but it isn’t my hair. I prefer to pick my battles and hair is not one of them. And his hair is pretty. Thick and the color of spun gold.
I did think that his hair was a rather annoying length. It was constantly in his eyes. There is no way to tie it back. Correction, no way to tie it back that doesn’t make him look like a girl with a really bad hair day. He hated brushing it. And given that he IS a normal 9 yr old boy, his hair washing technique left a lot to be desired.
So when on Saturday morning after trying his football helmet on again, and trying to get his hair out of his eyes again, he said, “I think I want to have all my hair cut off.” Well, I wasted no time hustling him to the car and into the hair salon. I think my exact words were, ” Grab your shoes!”
It is pretty hair.
I see scalp!
“Look mom, I can spike it now!”
Oddly, the short hair makes him look so much younger.
