Archive for the ‘life’ Tag
July 27 2011
Taking advantage of having my parents over to watch the kids, I ventured outside for a bit of yard work. First thing first, however, I wanted to test a water hose I found in our shed. The one currently in use has a weird connector that won’t attach to nozzles or sprinklers, while the other was more compatible. If I didn’t have to buy a new, all the better.
With my mother watching from the other side of the glass screen door and my daughter under her foot, I gathered the hose and screwed it in the spout after quickly glancing it over. I also grabbed a spray nozzle that wouldn’t work on the other, but fit together seamlessly on this. Figuring the deal was done, I turned the lever to on and fixed my gaze on the end of the hose to make sure the water shot out as intended.
Only the water shot out everywhere except where it was intended. I was soaked.
Still, I wasn’t ready to give up. With my mom attempting to hide a chuckle and my daughter helpfully pointing out how wet I was, I went inside to grab the duct tape. Because duct tape fixes everything.
Everything except a water hose.
With a degree of hope, I bandaged the tubing as tightly as I could and turned the lever back on. Again, my gaze was fixed to the end of the hose as I waited for the water to shoot out. Which it did. For a split second, I achieved the pressurized spray I had saturated myself for. And then, the duct tape let loose in such a marvelous volume. My hair clung to my neck, water filled my shoes. I was drenched on top of soaked.
“Nope, not gonna work”, I managed to utter in a deadpan to my mother, who was laughing to the point of tears, as I sloshed my way toward a towel. And while drying off, I cursed those hose. They really are nothing but trouble.
July 22 2011
She was coming up behind me, the wheels clickity clacking with the might of it’s bulk, pushing a double seated car cart as if it were a ton-pound boulder. One child was hanging over the edge of the safety bar, the other attempting a death-defying stunt maneuver. I, however, was gloriously alone, though taking up too much aisle for her to pass.
“Excuse me”, she said trying to lumber her way through, “I’m sorry, this thing is just so heavy”.
I nodded my head in knowing agreement as I watched her struggle around the corner and out of sight. I wanted to call out, say I’ve been there, my 3 bundles of gravity are at home. The weight briefly lifted, my shoulders breathing with the break. I may not be bearing down on that cart right now, but I get it. Laboring for every turn. It is heavy.
And the weight only multiplies the farther down the path we tread.
Whether setting rules or a battle of wills. A lost temper. The morning wake up calls at 3 a.m. that never seem to end. Those important topics of teenage discussion that you hesitate to start or breaking up fights over toys to fights over boys. The whys and what-ifs and an expectation that you have all the answers. To a child in the throes of a seasonal cold that want to be nowhere other than held when you have deadlines to meet. Dragging your child kicking and screaming from a playground to the judgmental glare of strangers. Infant carriers and hands to hold steady. Those cumbersome car carts that can’t make it down the aisle without an extra heave-ho in place of dignified grace. Motherhood is heavy, in every sense. And we are each stronger than we seem.
July 08 2011
My parents came over for a visit and promptly began to run down the roll call of their various aches and pains before they even sat down. Which they apparently had a lot of to go around. They’ve earned that right. Once you reach past a certain age, you’re allowed to complain all you want.
A threshold of which I can never cross in certain company.
Except the day before, I had been whipping a water hose in every direction for my kids to play in like I was still a kid myself. The lengths we go through to entertain and waterbomb our children. My body, however, informed me that morning that it wasn’t happy. Not happy at all to be used for that kind of exertion. As such, my shoulder blade was insufferable.
Oh, my arm! Oh, my leg! Ow, my back!
“My shoulder has been bothering me, too, since I woke up this morning.”, I chimed in.
To which they both turned to look at me as though I’d sprouted a third head.
“What are you complaining about?”, my mom dismissed. “You’re only 32.”
“Still hurts”, I shuffled my feet and mumbled as the subject changed.
The lesson here is that you’re only as old as those you’re listing your ailments to. Next time, I’ll stick to groaning at my kids. They’re polite enough to consider me ancient. As Jedi asked the other night, “Were there dinosaurs back in 1979?”. Yes, because I was born in the dark ages. Now here, son, come rub this Icy Hot on your geriatric mom’s shoulders.
July 06 2011
Fireworks were missed this July for the first time since the kids have been born. Even when they were littler and screaming in terror at the loud booms, they were still forced to suffer through in the name of making memories. Those days are gone and they would now be starstruck. This year, however, it’s just another in a line of how things are different.
I hoped that we could at least catch some from far away at our house. Unfortunately, there were too many trees blocking our view. I promised the kids we’d be back on a better track again next year.
Then, as we were getting ready for bed, our neighbor began setting off their own round of explosives. Like bombs literally bursting in air. They were so loud that each time took us by surprise as the rattle shook the house and we all had to settle our hearts back down beating again. Buzz shot up after one such jolt and summed up best what I believe we all were thinking, if maybe not exactly.
“That’s an angry ghost”, he randomly exclaimed.
Because ghosts, they go boo(m)!
It made as much sense as anything else and I’ve since taken the saying as my own. When the kids won’t go to sleep as quick as I’d like, I’m an angry ghost. Barking dogs at midnight are an angry ghost. Missing fireworks makes us all an angry ghost. Life is full of them, spooked by its own shadow. But sometimes, you need the scare to get your heart back down beating again. Boo(m)!
June 20 2011
When the kids go to bed at night, I’ve been known to eat a bowl of ice cream. It’s how I unwind. Which is probably also why I’ve yet to lose most of the “baby weight” 3 years later. But I made it through another day with most of my hair, I think I deserve it.
On the really trying days, I even top my Double Fudge Brownie chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup. I have no excuse for this, really, but I still blame the kids.
As was the case the other night, when I put a few scoops in a bowl and began to drizzle with a ribbon of chocolate. Only it was the last of the bottle. As the air bubbles made an alarming sound like flatulence, Jedi perked up from the dark of his room.
“Mommy?”, he yelled for me. “What was that?”
Crap, I thought. What do I tell him? If I say what it really was, then he’s going to want some. But I don’t want him to have any. I don’t want to share. This is mine, darn it. I earned it. Why isn’t he asleep, anyway? Who cares, what do I say? He’s going to see me walk past with a bowl, he’ll know something’s in it. Think, woman, think.
“It was an empty bottle”, I began.
“Of what?”, he continued to quiz.
But I’m surprisingly quick on my feet when ice cream is concerned. “Salad dressing”, I replied.
“Ew”, he remarked before turning back over to sleep. And as all the kids lay oblivious in their beds, I ate my treat in peace. Because nothing makes a bad day better like a good bowl of salad.
