Bickering Wild Boys - The Tale of My Fast Fading Sanity
Hola Wild Boy followers!
Here I am, signing in a week later. Look at me, nailing this responsibility thing! Yay me! OK, truth...the cop is working a graveyard this evening and I'm supposed to be cleaning, finishing laundry and packing for training away from my wild boys. Aaaaand I'm procrastinating a smidge. See, the cop keeps me slightly more focused when he's around. Usually it's with super casual little nudges like "what are you DOING?" as I wander through our home holding one baseball cleat, the dog's allergy pills and a bag of carrots. But he's gone, so the laundry is halfway done, I've got a list of things left to do, and I'm taking a minute to sit.
The wild boys, however, are indifferent to my need to get things done. I feel like Sisyphus. You know, from Greek mythology? Yes...I AM that nerdy. But follow along here...Sisyphus was punished by having to push a boulder up a hill for eternity, and every time it got to the top it would roll back down. You remember now right? Who cares even if you don't, I just told you the part that matters. Anyhow, when it comes to a day of trying to get things accomplished with the wild boys in tow I feel like Sisyphus. (Look people, at my college they told us the best thing about a liberal arts degree was how interesting we would be at cocktail parties. I have kids, a job, and actual responsibilities, and NOWHERE in that mix has there been a cocktail party. Just take the reference and stop judging me already!)
Last night I went to bed with seriously grandiose plans. They included baseball this morning, followed by all the shopping that needed to be done for the week, laundry, cleaning the house, making sure the wild boys finished their big year end school projects, packing, and going to bed with everything ready to go for tomorrow.
Hahahahahahaha.
EVERYONE overslept. Yup. It happened. As I frantically threw together uniforms for the boys I realized a tube of chap stick had melted from Gabe's pocket in the dryer (yes, I missed something in his pocket again...) and the grey baseball pants were now polka dotted with melted pink cherry wax. And that set the tone for the day, folks. As we drove down the hill after baseball the boys (who ate at the snack bar after the game) decided they couldn't be expected to go shopping without formal lunch. Because they are apparently hobbits, and weren't held over by breakfast, snacks, second breakfast, more snacks, third breakfast, a little snack...OK, I'm exaggerating, but not by much. It's staggering. So, we changed direction toward food. At which point Gavin decided he couldn't wear his cleats anymore, one was way too tight and he was POSITIVE he would get an ingrown toenail if he didn't get to take it off right now. RIGHT NOW. So we diverted to Payless to buy flip flops, because there was no way I was dealing with that through four stores. But wait, their baseball belts were then uncomfortable and they didn't want to go into the store without taking those off first.
Side note here - anybody who wants to make some money should market baseball pants with pant loops big enough for the assigned belts to actually fit through without a mother having to twist the buckle sideways at every loop while squirming children keep pulling away and knocking her off balance to where she falls in a parking lot. Just saying. Million dollar idea right there.
So, shoes, bruised mom knees, and food later we finally get to start our errands. You know what's worse then shopping with two boys who have a super high energy drive and hate shopping? Nothing, that's what. There is bargaining, there is wheeling and dealing, there are actual threats, and then there is the resignation, when you've discovered nothing you can do will stop the fighting over things like:
"He said I could push the cart once we got to aisle ten!"
"He used my first AND middle name!"
And let's how could we forget -
"He's trying to ram me with the cart!"
Once we eventually made it home and onto the school projects I realized there was no way under the heavens everything was getting done. The glue for Gabe's project broke, which meant he and Gavin had to actually take turns (GASP...NO, anything but THAT!) and share. Mediating that little bit of heaven led to more gems like:
"That's too much glue...he's using too much glue mom...MOM! Are you listening? It's ALL THE GLUE MOM!!!"
And:
"Really? You just had it! Am I EVER going to get a turn? No? Well, I guess I'll just fail and have to stay back and do fourth grade ALL OVER!"
The good news is, the projects are done. The boys aren't really ready to talk to one another yet, which is ok because it's meant a little bit of silence while Gabe glared at Gavin across the living room and Gavin sat on the couch in his underwear writing angry haiku poems in his journal about how horrid his brother is. I know what you're thinking. Anger has no place in haiku, right? No, you're probably still stunned at the idea that a ten year old was writing haiku in his underwear on a Saturday night. We're all about expression here in la casa, peeps. Don't hate. Plus, he's going to be a hoot at cocktail parties one day.
And with that, my day is done. Because frankly I'm spent. The rest will wait, and what doesn't get done can go in a haiku by my son about his life with a crazy, sloppy mother. I'm willing to risk it.
Until next time, happy haikuing from la casa!
Here I am, signing in a week later. Look at me, nailing this responsibility thing! Yay me! OK, truth...the cop is working a graveyard this evening and I'm supposed to be cleaning, finishing laundry and packing for training away from my wild boys. Aaaaand I'm procrastinating a smidge. See, the cop keeps me slightly more focused when he's around. Usually it's with super casual little nudges like "what are you DOING?" as I wander through our home holding one baseball cleat, the dog's allergy pills and a bag of carrots. But he's gone, so the laundry is halfway done, I've got a list of things left to do, and I'm taking a minute to sit.
The wild boys, however, are indifferent to my need to get things done. I feel like Sisyphus. You know, from Greek mythology? Yes...I AM that nerdy. But follow along here...Sisyphus was punished by having to push a boulder up a hill for eternity, and every time it got to the top it would roll back down. You remember now right? Who cares even if you don't, I just told you the part that matters. Anyhow, when it comes to a day of trying to get things accomplished with the wild boys in tow I feel like Sisyphus. (Look people, at my college they told us the best thing about a liberal arts degree was how interesting we would be at cocktail parties. I have kids, a job, and actual responsibilities, and NOWHERE in that mix has there been a cocktail party. Just take the reference and stop judging me already!)
Last night I went to bed with seriously grandiose plans. They included baseball this morning, followed by all the shopping that needed to be done for the week, laundry, cleaning the house, making sure the wild boys finished their big year end school projects, packing, and going to bed with everything ready to go for tomorrow.
Hahahahahahaha.
EVERYONE overslept. Yup. It happened. As I frantically threw together uniforms for the boys I realized a tube of chap stick had melted from Gabe's pocket in the dryer (yes, I missed something in his pocket again...) and the grey baseball pants were now polka dotted with melted pink cherry wax. And that set the tone for the day, folks. As we drove down the hill after baseball the boys (who ate at the snack bar after the game) decided they couldn't be expected to go shopping without formal lunch. Because they are apparently hobbits, and weren't held over by breakfast, snacks, second breakfast, more snacks, third breakfast, a little snack...OK, I'm exaggerating, but not by much. It's staggering. So, we changed direction toward food. At which point Gavin decided he couldn't wear his cleats anymore, one was way too tight and he was POSITIVE he would get an ingrown toenail if he didn't get to take it off right now. RIGHT NOW. So we diverted to Payless to buy flip flops, because there was no way I was dealing with that through four stores. But wait, their baseball belts were then uncomfortable and they didn't want to go into the store without taking those off first.
Side note here - anybody who wants to make some money should market baseball pants with pant loops big enough for the assigned belts to actually fit through without a mother having to twist the buckle sideways at every loop while squirming children keep pulling away and knocking her off balance to where she falls in a parking lot. Just saying. Million dollar idea right there.
So, shoes, bruised mom knees, and food later we finally get to start our errands. You know what's worse then shopping with two boys who have a super high energy drive and hate shopping? Nothing, that's what. There is bargaining, there is wheeling and dealing, there are actual threats, and then there is the resignation, when you've discovered nothing you can do will stop the fighting over things like:
"He said I could push the cart once we got to aisle ten!"
"He used my first AND middle name!"
And let's how could we forget -
"He's trying to ram me with the cart!"
Once we eventually made it home and onto the school projects I realized there was no way under the heavens everything was getting done. The glue for Gabe's project broke, which meant he and Gavin had to actually take turns (GASP...NO, anything but THAT!) and share. Mediating that little bit of heaven led to more gems like:
"That's too much glue...he's using too much glue mom...MOM! Are you listening? It's ALL THE GLUE MOM!!!"
And:
"Really? You just had it! Am I EVER going to get a turn? No? Well, I guess I'll just fail and have to stay back and do fourth grade ALL OVER!"
The good news is, the projects are done. The boys aren't really ready to talk to one another yet, which is ok because it's meant a little bit of silence while Gabe glared at Gavin across the living room and Gavin sat on the couch in his underwear writing angry haiku poems in his journal about how horrid his brother is. I know what you're thinking. Anger has no place in haiku, right? No, you're probably still stunned at the idea that a ten year old was writing haiku in his underwear on a Saturday night. We're all about expression here in la casa, peeps. Don't hate. Plus, he's going to be a hoot at cocktail parties one day.
And with that, my day is done. Because frankly I'm spent. The rest will wait, and what doesn't get done can go in a haiku by my son about his life with a crazy, sloppy mother. I'm willing to risk it.
Until next time, happy haikuing from la casa!
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