We made it through the first week and a couple days into the second week of the new school year. Of course, there was drama. There was drama because I have kids. And there was drama because one of those kids is a teenage girl. And she has teenage girlfriends. If I said nothing else, you would completely understand. But I can’t leave it here…
Sometime over the holidays, I misplaced my winter gloves and needed something to cover my hands when I went outside in near zero degree temperatures. I didn’t want to run back upstairs—again—to grab a pair of gloves from my top dresser drawer, so I dug through the kids’ bag of gloves in the mudroom. Not a single matching pair among them, so this is what I wore.
Monkey Boy also needs a costume, for which we are happy to provide. He needs a pig mask/nose/ears, and he need to wear either pink or peach for the play. Monkey Boy requested to wear pink, because according to him, "Peach is not my color."
The transformation is complete, although truth be told, it has been for quite a while, a couple years. But this morning sealed it.
Ren was taking much too much time getting ready for school one morning last week. Instead of getting his clothes on, he was lying on the floor playing with his toys. I stepped into room, opened his drawers and pulled out clothes for him to wear.
I walked into the middle of a conversation between The Girl and Monkey Boy,”…Ren you peed twice outside today,” Ash accused.
Yesterday in the car, Ren starts bragging on himself, “I found momma’s money.” B looks at me with a quizzical look, “Really?”
Ash and I went clothes shopping this morning. It reinforced that we definitely have differing styles, and the days of frilly pink dresses, or any dresses for that matter, are long behind us. Welcome all manner of black, grey, boxy, and distressed. It’s a little like shopping with B. I hold up something that I think will meet with her most stringent guidelines for clothing
purchases, “This is cute. What about this?”
Ash was going to an all-girls birthday party, so as an equitable parent who does not want to hear three-hours of “Why can’t I go,” I decided to take the boy someplace, special, too. I told him to grab a pair of socks from his top drawer. He ran upstairs and quickly returned with one sock. I sent him back upstairs for the other sock, and this is what he came back with. B said, “He did grab two, and that makes a pair.”’
“What are you doing, momma?”
“I am sewing a button on daddy’s shorts,” I replied as I poked the needle through the fabric and pulled through the thread.
‘You sew? YOU SEW?” He exclaimed.
Just spent the last week in the midst of spring cleaning. We all went through our closets and dressers, removing ill-fitting and neglected clothing to give to charity. And then, we removed eight regular sized plastic tubs and three extremely large plastic tubs and one old suitcase filled with baby toys and toddler toys, little girl toys and dress up costumes, and stuffed animals. I now have nine very large lawn and leaf bags filled with donations.
With just a few days left until summer vacation, we are finding it harder and harder to stay in our regular routine such as early bedtimes. Last night was late, really late, later than weekend late nights. This morning, for the first time this school year, I overslept.
B has a lot of t-shirts, his attire of choice. Over the years he has owned a variety of them, his favorites becoming shabby and threadbare. Periodically, we go through his dresser to remove the most frayed, decrepit, holey and stained, always accompanied with a chorus of “What’s wrong with that one? I don’t see the problem. I can wear that when I’m working around the house.” My duet sings in reply, “You already have 50 work-around-the-house shirts, and still most of the time you choose to work around the house shirtless.” (That’s a fact, not a complaint.)
My daughter, almost famous for her brave fashion choices, matched a black and red top with black polka dotted pants. She stood in the doorway to her bedroom, donned her Mickey Mouse Ears and twirled her Dirt Devil mini broom, without the accompanying dustpan, mind you. “Look at me, Mom,” a phrase I hear about 100 times a day, for outfits, feats of strength, fanciful poses, daring escapes, drinking water, you get the picture.
She picked out pink socks again today. I talked her into wearing a pink sweater and a pink top, pink gloves and a pink scarf and mittens. She looked fabweus.
We were getting ready to leave the house. I can't remember where we were going, but there was a time line we were attempting to meet. My rather indulgent steamy, hot shower ran long, and that put us just a touch behind schedule. Even so, I had everything under control until B asked, "What can I do to help?"
Outside, heavy sleet & rain. Us in the car. The conversation went like this:
Me: I want to get Ash some rain slicker boots. And me, too.
B: What are rain slicker boots?
A friend of mine posted that she was contemplating her overflowing laundry baskets. I could identify. I stood in the laundry room and stared at the clothes lying prostrate and surrounding the washing machine as though they had come to Mecca. What finally guilted me to take action, actually turn on the machine and send the clothes to cleaning Nirvana was the fact that I took B's last pair of clean socks from his drawer this morning so that I would have clean and cushy socks for my workout (and B I know you're gonna see this. Don't worry, you'll have all sorts of clean socks by the time you get home. No guarantee they'll be folded, though.)
The other day while we were sitting in the living room, B points to the pants he was wearing and says to me, “I think these need to be washed.” His statement was almost immediately followed with, “Smell them.”The other day while we were sitting in the living room, B points to the pants he was wearing and says to me, “I think these need to be washed.” His statement was almost immediately followed with, “Smell them.”