Ugh! Frustration!

I had two hours to write this afternoon, if I was a good girl and buckled down to do it.  I was planning to be a very good girl because I've been working on revising a story.  Working for quite a long time on this revision.

I got onto my computer, and looked at all the files on my desktop.  Then I looked again.

I can't find it anywhere.

The only explanation I can come up with, is my son, who uses the computer for school and so is on it more than anyone else, must have done something with my precious, precious story.  It's a good thing my son is gone right now, because if he were home, I would probably scald his face with my scathing words of accusation.

As it is, I will allow my words time to cool.  Unless he really is guilty of making me redo all my hard work.  In which case, I will bring those words back to a boil and let them fly!

A Heavy Load to Bear

Two weeks ago, our neighbors moved.  My older son asked if he could help them load things up and they told him no, probably thinking it would be a relief to him.  He came home bummed that he didn't get to help.  He said, "When our new neighbors move in, I WILL help them."  He did.  Every day they brought over small loads, and my son was there.

On Friday, I took two kids, including my elder son, and my sister shopping.  Since he was still being uber-helpful, my son told me to tell him what I needed as we walked around and he'd put it in the cart for me.

"I need milk."  He ran to grab it.

"I need grapes."  Done.

"I need flour,"  I said, pointing to a fifty pound bag.

My sixty-five pound son jumped at the chance to heft something nearly as big as he was.  Wrapping his arms around the bag, he lifted.  To his credit, he had it in his arms before gravity took over.  My son began bending backwards to compensate for the weight he carried.  Then the flour laid him out, right there on the aisle floor.  The monster bag of flour perched on his chest, the clear victor.  Trying to get air to his crushed lungs, my son gasped.

So did I, but I was laughing.

He had to suffer through several seconds before I controlled myself and lifted the flour into the cart.  It was heavy.  Still chuckling, we continued on down the aisle, passing another shopper who stopped us long enough to say, "That WAS funny."

Wait, I Had a Childhood?

Anyone who has tried to get me to remember something from my past will know that my memory ceases to function if it's been longer than a month ago.  I won't recognize dementia or alzheimer's until I'm being put in a home.  Sad, really, but there it is.

Yesterday, I was chatting with my niece and she was saying things like, "Do you remember when we would go and buy as much penny candy as we could and then we'd go back to your house and put them in baggies and sell them out of the "store" in your brother's room?"

I just went with it.  "Oh yeah!  That was fun."

She laughed at me because I obviously didn't have a clue.

Then she told another story.  "Do you remember the time we saved up all our money to give to this family in our neighborhood because we heard they were having a hard time?"

"No.  But that totally sounds like something I would do."

It doesn't.

She continued. "We pooled our money (along with the cousin who lived across the street from our houses) and then carved out a little pumpkin, shoved all the money inside and rode our bikes to this neighbor's house.  We put the pumpkin on the porch, rang the doorbell then jumped on our bikes, peddling like crazy to get away before she opened the door."

I remember nothing, Nothing, of this adventure in doorbell ditching.  It took me several minutes to even recognize the name of the neighbor she was talking about.  But it's nice to know that I was such a great kid.

 I hope my mother was paying attention to that story because her memory is as bad as mine and, if nothing else, I want her to realize just how wonderful I really was.

Woes of a Lazy Mom

First week of school this week.  My daughter and my youngest son are in school full time.  My middle son chose to do online public school from home.  When he chose that, I was thinking, "Oh, that'll be easy!  The school provides all the materials and curriculum.  There's a teacher available if the student doesn't understand something.  This will be easy."

Famous last words.

Yesterday was the first day back to school.  I dropped my oldest and youngest off at their respective schools and came home, only to realize my son and I didn't know how to run this whole online school thing.  It also didn't help that neither of us got much sleep.  There may have been tears and threats involved, which probably isn't part of the curriculum.  By the time I picked up my oldest and youngest from school, I'd had a full day and had already thrown in the towel.  When my husband got home, I fed everyone the easiest dinner I could think of and plopped on my bed.  That's when my husband came in and said, "No, no, no!  If you sleep now I won't get to talk to you at all today."

I lifted my weary head off the mattress and relegated my headache to the background again, because I'm that kind of wife.  (Awesome.  I'm an awesome wife.  In case you missed it.)

School went much better today, but I'm still wondering how traumatic it would be if I chucked my son at the nearest school marquee tomorrow morning and drove off.

Back To School

Three weeks ago I got news of a mult-stake clothing swap, just in time for school shopping.  If you're not acquainted with clothing swaps, first let me offer my condolences, then let me explain why these are the best idea anyone ever had.

You know all the clothes in your closet you haven't worn in a while because they don't suit you, or they're out of style, or they don't fit, or whatever?  You take those clothes to the swap, and everyone else does the same.  Then, you get to sort through and pick out whatever you like from what other's brought in.  Free.  Can I say that again?  Free!

After three long, long weeks of anticipation, the day finally arrived.  My daughter and I headed out early, hopeful of beating the crowds, and maybe finding the good stuff before someone else.

Evidently, I'm not the only woman out there that wants free stuff.  We got to the church five minutes before the doors were supposed to open and the place was packed.  I beelined right to the little boys' clothes and had no luck in finding something nice in the right sizes.  Then I wandered for a while.  Picking up a shirt for my husband and making sure my daughter was having fun.  Then I planted myself in front of the tables piled with women's clothing.

At the end, my daughter had found some nice things.  My husband got one shirt.  The boys will need to go to an actual store.  I came home with WAY more than anyone else.  Kind of a sad commentary on how I think.

But I need to say again that it was Free.

So You Think You Can Watch?

The universe has conspired against me.  It saddens me, but it's true.

I only like one or two television shows enough to make a stink about not being able to watch them when the new season comes out.  Sherlock is one.  Call the Midwife is another.  Sometimes I like House, or Bones enough to whinge about it.  But there is one show that I consistently want to watch and the lucky winner is So You Think You Can Dance.

There is something about the beauty and athleticism inherent in good dancers that I can't get enough of. I love that they dance in every genre, and even when I don't like the dances or the music, or the contestants, or the judges (Grrr to Mary Murphy's hot tamale train), I savor it all.  Every minute of it.

Perhaps that's why the universe has conspires against me.  I enjoy it too much and therefore, according to the puritan values my ancestors embraced, it is not allowed.

I cannot watch it via computer because my computer is too old to support the website.  YouTube has only clips when my soul demands full episodes, and I cannot endure missing anything.  We don't have regular TV or cable or dish or anything, so that's out.  I got so desperate that I went to my friend's house to watch it on her TV even though it was clearly an imposition on her time with her husband.

Last night, I got all excited, thinking I'd be able to watch it now on our Apple TV, but that also is a no go because evidently, you have to already have TV in order to watch TV.  Clearly, the entertainment Execs have been talking to economists.

And me?  I'm not feeling very kindly towards my puritan ancestors.

The Shiner From Next Door

Escaping the heat of the outside, I sat in my cool, cool house, on my couch that sucks a person into its cushions and won't let go.  So nice.  When the front door opened, an entire three dollars of cold got pulled outside, never to be seen again.  My youngest son came in, closing the door obediently behind him.  "Mom, can I go to my friend's house?"

Looking at his adorable freckled face, it was hard NOT to notice the quarter-sized bump under his eye that had already begun to purple.  "What happened to your eye?" I asked, demanding the couch release its hold on me so I could fix whatever was wrong with my baby.

My baby blinked in thought.  Then blinked again.

"Oh!  I was jumping on the neighbor's trampoline and I tried to do a backflip and I landed on my head and my knee hit me in the eye.  I didn't even cry. Can I go to my friend's house?"

Obviously he hadn't cried!  He couldn't even remember what had blackened his eye!

Like any good mother, I immediately grabbed my phone and took a picture.  Part of me couldn't stop smiling because he looked so stinkin' cute.  And a little bit sad.  I texted that picture to his father, explaining what made him look like a six year-old pugilist.

My husband's response was, "I hate trampolines."

My response was to take more pictures.