Lunch Run

No time to talk, gang.  Today, in my free time, I will be taking my son's lunch to school.  He left it in the van this morning. 

See?  More school hours, more "free" time.

I'll be back later.  If more trouble doesn't find me first. 

Anyone seen my daughter's art smock??

 

School Daze

Aren't things supposed to slow down once school starts? 

For the parents, I mean.  Isn't it supposed to get a bit easier, with the kids back and school, occuppied and stimulated all day?  Not around here to make messes, need feeding, be bored, or wanna do stuff?

I always start out the school year brimming with enthusiasm and ambition for all the things I'm going to accomplish with all the new time on my hands.  I also look forward to the free time I'm going to have.  And each spring, I wonder where the time went and why not much is scratched off my to-do list.  Free time?  Ha.  When will I realize that, somehow, there is less free time when the kids are in school than when they are not.  I'm not sure how that's possible, but it is true.

For instance, take my day so far. 

Upon waking, I staggered down the hallway and woke my six year old and then presided over her shower, washing her hair and reminding her as she went along.  Then I laid her clothes out for the day.

Once I got downstairs, I did, indeed, sit down and have a cup of coffee with my husband, blessed maker-of-coffee that he is.  After that, it was a blur of hairbrushes, toothbrushes, folders, backpacks, shoes, and socks (in that order for some).  Somewhere in the midst of all that, breakfast was served and lunches were made.

I kissed the brood goodbye and waved as my husband drove off with the kids -- he dispenses them on his way to work. 

Then I sat down at the computer, to catch up with you fine folks.  Instead, I had my world rocked by an email sent out by the school principal late last evening.  A few phone calls and emails later, I was running upstairs to grab a shower, find some clothes, and throw on some makeup. 

Out the door for a meeting.  Said meeting, of course, runs over, leaving me running late to pick my son up from school (a result of the emailing).  Get to school, track down my son, sign him out, and explain to his questioning little self what is going on. 

Then we find a lovely little spot for a picnic.  A calm oasis in the middle of a tumultuous day. 

Then a quick trip to the grocery store for fruit.  And then a sprint around the store as finally an idea for supper descends upon me.  The few ingredients I need are, predictably, strewn across the store, forcing me to visit all four corners.

Crisis averted, I return my son to school, just in time for him to join his Spanish class.

Across town to pick up a new bowl for my fish.  (He seems to have issues with his latest abode.)  The next thing I know, I run into the mother of my son's classmate and end up spending the next hour talking about school, kids, daughters, life, money, and everything else that needs discussing when two great minds meet. 

Run home to put melting groceries in the 'fridge and, finally, check up on you fine people.

But no time to chat now, I've got to go pick my kids up from school, and then I really get busy.

Good thing the school day's over, all this free time is exhausting.

Mean vs. Clean

Well, Mean Mommy strikes again.

You won't believe what I did this time.

First, I allowed my son to play outside the entire day. 

I even lent him my husband (okay, his father, too).  All day, they worked at his pond.  They've been digging dirt, laying rock, and having a general all-around good time.  (If you're into that sort of thing.  I worked on the chicken coop roof while longingly thinking of all the cooking shows I could be watching and knitting I could be doing.) 

Then, I allowed the work to wind down and the clock to approach evening. 

And then.  The worst of all.  In light of how filthy he was . . .

I sent him upstairs for a shower. 

Wait.  It gets worse.

When he arrived an astounding 90 seconds later with all the dirt that had lightly covered his neck and face now forming muddy little rivers running down his face and neck . . .

I sent him back up to shower again.

I know.  How hard would it have been for me to simply smile approvingly at my dirt-streaked son and be grateful that he is mine.  I mean, what is more important?  Furniture, clothing, bedding, and overall house cleanliness, not to mention personal hygeine habits or simply being tolerant, allowing for indiviual differences?  How superficial of me. 

And then you won't believe what I did next. 

Yes, that's right.  Look away if you're squeamish.

When he returned still dirty yet again, I, yep, sent back upstairs.  Again. 

I am so mean, I was not even swayed by the sighs, the sudden limpness in the spine and shoulder area, or even the tears darkened with dirt.

He's upstairs now, taking his third shower in a whole 6 minutes. 

That's okay. 

I may be mean, but my boy will be clean.

Bargain at the Pump

So I had to get gas the other day.

It was one of those emergency situations brought on by poor planning and masterful procrastination. 

I was running late and on fumes.  I needed gas enough to get to the school to pick up my kids and to get to the much more reasonably priced gas stations a bit further from my house -- but in the entirely wrong direction of the school.

So I was forced to compromise my principles and go to the gas station only blocks from my home.  A gas station I must pass when going all, but one direction for anything.  A gas station I swore off years ago due to their high prices and, worst of all, horribly chauvanistic attitude.  For example, whenever I would pump gas there, a man from the station would approach me and try to sell me a prepaid car service plan.  His angle of persuasion?  I should show my husband that I am capable of doing things myself (by prepaying for services we may never need?) and that this was a good plan for women.  (Way too many sexist assumptions in there to break out and list; you get it, I'm sure.)  Um.  No.  Not my kind of place.  However, this day, years after the last time I'd gone there, I was desperate.

I pulled in and found more than one pump out of order.  Nice place.  Once I found a working pump, I got out and resentfully shoved my credit card into the slot.  Only then did I realize that the screen on the pump was broken, making it impossible to see what I was agreeing to.  I could not see whether the previous person had paid or not.  It suddenly occurred to me that I may be paying for the previous sale, car washes, etc. as well as my own gas.

Angrily, I put in only enough gas to get me where I wanted to go.  Approximately $6.00.  Yes, I put in only $6.00 worth of gas.  I told you, I was desperate AND I detested that particular gas station.  So now the pay mechanism starts beeping invisible orders at me -- the screen was still blank.  I did my best to complete the transaction and then stomped into the station itself.

To the ancient, sexist-looking man sitting behind the counter as if he hadn't moved from there in years, I explained that the paying mechanism on the pump was broken and I wasn't sure whether I had paid and, if I had paid, how much.  The chauvanistic-looking man explained to me that the paying mechanism wasn't broken, it just wasn't working.  (See?)  I told him I could not see what I had paid for or what I agreed to.  He asked me if I had pumped any gas.  (Right on the ball, that one.)  He condescendingly explained that if I had pumped gas, that's what I paid for.  I sharply explained I had no way of knowing that or proving that since I did not even get a receipt for the transaction -- for all I knew, I had not even completed the transaction or could have paid for the order before me and who knows what else.

With a heavy sigh, almost imperceptible (but I was watching) eye roll, and disdainful look, he asked how much gas I had pumped.

"Six dollars."

He turned away from his by-hand receipt machine, looked at me tiredly, and repeated, exasperatedly, "Six. Dollars."

By this, I was supposed to feel foolish for the small purchase, I guess. 

Au contraire.

I smartly corrected him, "Actually, Six oh six.  ($6.06)  And I'd like a receipt saying that is all I am responsible for here today."

"Six. Damned. Dollars."

"No.  Six oh six.  Six dollars and six cents."

I got my receipt, along with a puff of frustration and a look that should have curled my hair, a good chuckle, a lucky number, and a story that has already become legend in my family.

All for $6.06.

Such a bargain.

Welcome Wagon!

Hiya, Sdefiore !  


Welcome, Sdefiore,
I'll have to guess at the pronunciation-ay,
And say, "That's Amore'!"

Welcome!!

Summer: Now You See It, Then You Won't

Well, it's almost here.

Labor Day Weekend.

For anyone who may not be familiar, it is the day the U.S. takes off of work to celebrate . . . well, work.  That's the official story.  The unofficial story:  This is the weekend when we all take one last look around, say goodbye to summer and welcome fall.  It is the weekend, in my house, at least, in which we literally morph from summer to fall.  No equinox business needed in this house; we go by the calendar.  Right now, Friday afternoon, it's still summer.  Come Monday evening, it will be fall.  Today, at the grocery store, watermelon seemed like a possibility.  Come Tuesday, watermelon will seem out of season and squash will be front and center.  It happens that fast, for me anyway. 

We never travel or have any big plans for Labor Day weekend.  It's just too close to school or, as is the case this year, school actually has begun.  So we'll kick around the house, cleaning up the yard, clearing the deck of all the little things that have accumulated there over the summer:  my son's portable greenhouse, my husband's outdoor extension cord, my decorative birdcage out there awaiting a hosing off, and my daughter's rock collection.  We'll put away the extra lawn furniture, leaving just enough for us -- visitors won't be sitting out back anymore this year.  We'll be dumping out containers of annuals and stopping my son from sneaking them all inside to be raised (so he thinks) as houseplants.

I'll get my husband to restring my laundry line.  It snapped the other day just as I got all the kids' school uniform slacks hung out.  Not a good morning.  Nothing more fun that going back out, not more than 5 minutes after hanging it all, to pick the currently wet and formerly clean laundry out of the mulch and bare dirt (yard renovations continue), and fire them right back in the wash machine.  No, not good.  

Then, hopefully, we'll finish the roof on the chicken coop.  Yes, it is possible, the coop -- the essentials of it, at least -- COULD maybe, MIGHT maybe, POSSIBLY hopefully be finished this weekend.  This is the very last of it other than little cutesy things that we will do as the spirit moves us.  I can't believe it will finally be finished.  It looks great.  I will share photos with you all when it's done.  That could be as early as Tuesday!

Let's see, what else . . .

Grilling.  We always grill a lot over Labor Day weekend.  I think we'll start out easy tonight and just do hamburgers and french fries.

So, reading this through, it strikes me as a lot of work for not working.  Hmmmm . . .

I guess it's a lot of work changing seasons all in one weekend.