only more drawn out. And more painful.
This is what I have been working on non-stop the past week. I finished painting the walls. Installed the tile. Grouted the tile. Ordered my husband around.
It has been an exhausting week.
There is still quite a bit that needs to be done (counters! plumbing that works! cabinet doors!), but we are in the homestretch now.
Because sometimes writing coherently is just too much work.
- My oldest son needed to lose weight in order to play on his football team. (I really hope I can still speak of this need in the past tense, as of tonight he has made weight.) He has been the most miserable dieter in the history of dieters. He sulked and moped and yelled at everyone, all while complaining about how hungry he was. Did I mention that it was only 2 pounds he needed to lose? I mean a good poop could probably take care of it, right?
- So he lost the weight. (Apparently complaining burns a lot of calories.) He cut back on his carbs and added two miles of running to his daily routine. He literally has not one ounce of fat left on his body. Before anyone asks, the decision was his. It was either lose the weight or not play this season. There isn’t a team in the next weight division in the town we are playing for. We could travel further away to another town I suppose, but we couldn’t do it for a variety of reasons.
-We then had to find 1lb 4 oz to lose off of his gear. Let me tell you that you have not lived until you are in a cramped office with your son’s coach for an hour weighing all of your son’s pads, pants, shirts, and cup looking for places to cut the weight. This included literally cutting his jersey. Those ounces add up. The jury is still out on the need to shave his head.
Today I went out and bought him a new pair of cleats because they weigh a full pound less than the ones he currently has. Did you know there was such a weight differential in cleats? I didn’t. I never really cared either.
- My younger son got these forearm protector things to wear. Everytime he holds his arms up I have the urge to shout, “Shazam!”
- Our kitchen remodel is almost done. It is so close that I can almost taste the food I will be cooking on my stove. I am so over the camp stove. And the grill. And washing my dishes in the laundry room sink. I am just thankful that no one can see the amount of paper plates we are using around here. I can still carry my reuseable grocery bags around and feel smugly superior without anyone being wiser.
- My husband is on week three and a half of a four and a half week sabbatical from work. We have spent every single day working on the house. We are still married.. And more importantly, still alive. Every day I talk to Susan and she asks me if I am calling for bail money. There is still one more week left, don’t go spending it yet.
I know that football players aren’t supposed to be cute. But they are.
I kind of wish they could play without their helmets on so that you could see their cute little faces. You know, except for the traumatic head injuries that would result. That wouldn’t be very cute.
They look like bobble heads running around. I just want to run up and pinch them all they are so cute.
Except for the 100 pound bobble heads on the other team who are laying on top of my 65 pound son. I kind of want to run on the field and kick them.
Scene: Telephone ringing. Seven year old son wins the race and fight to the death and gets to answer the phone. He may or may not have been standing on top of his opponent when he answers.
Him: Hello?
Long pause, where he just sits there listening intently.
He hangs up the phone.
Rob: Why did you hang up? Who was on the phone?
Him: It was a robot calling.
Rob: What?
Him: A robot. It said that there is a fossil exhibit at the doctor’s office.
Rob: Fossil exhibit?
Him: That is what the robot said.
Rob: That makes no sense.
Him: I just give you the message. I don’t make it up.
I still have no idea what the message actually said. I assume that it was one of those automated phone calls reminding you of an appointment, but how he got the words “fossil exhibit” from the message I have no idea.
At the same time, it tickles me to no end that he imagines a robot sitting at a desk calling people.
Every night when I go upstairs to bed I find Miles. Sometimes I put him to bed in his crib but by the time I go upstairs he has moved himself, and his stuff, to my bed.
Then I pick him up and put him back where he belongs. I kiss his head and nuzzle into his chubby neck. He smells like baby shampoo and little boy sweat.
Yes, my 3.5 yr old son still sleeps in a crib. We do keep the side down and he climbs in and out at will. I tell people that it is because he loves his crib and doesn’t want to give it up yet. The real reason is that I haven’t gotten around to buying him a bedroom set yet. Because he is still a baby. Shut up, he totally is a baby.
And once I buy him a real bed, our crib days are over. It is the very last baby item that we have in the house. And while I am glad to be moving on from that stage, I just don’t want to rush it. Do you think they would make fun of him at college if he brought his cribby with him?
The past few days have been an exercise in what could go wrong, will go wrong. And even those things that don’t go wrong will be fraught with obstacles so as to eat up most of your time. Make you rip the hair from your head. And cause you to drink straight out of the wine bottle. Okay, maybe I only fantasized about the last one because WHO KNOWS where the bottle opener is in this kitchenless house.
Let me detail the problems for you, so you can share some of my pain:
1) Cabinets on one wall did not fit in the space. How that could possibly have happened, I have no idea. In the end we were able to take one cabinet out of the run and have them fit. But I am not thrilled with the layout now. Not much I can really do about it though since I can not magically make my wall longer.
But this lead to another problem…
2) Sink cabinet is off centered to the window. Not completely off where someone might think it was done that way on purpose, no off just enough that it is obviously a mistake.
That lead to:
3) Moving the window over six inches.
Which meant:
4) The light outside the window that was centered in between the window and the backdoor had to be moved over.
And then:
5) The outside siding had to be redone.
And of course:
6) The interior wall had to be resheetrocked.
And also:
7) The light over the sink had to be moved and centered.
And the kicker to the entire thing:
8 ) When we went to put the sink into the cabinet, it was too big. Even though we ordered the cabinets and sink from the same place. We had to return it and scramble around for a new sink to fit the space. We found one that cost over twice as much as the original and as an added bonus was a royal pain in the butt to install.
Those were only the issues we faced on that one wall of the kitchen.
I took the photo above of my husband cutting out the new hole for the sink and he gave me “the look” right after. The look that says “take my photo again and I might strangle you with the camera strap.” I reminded him that one day we would look back on it and it would be funny.
That day isn’t today. I’ll let you know when it happens.
(cross posted at BlogHer)
Dear Son,
I realize that at football practice you get hot running around with all of that gear on.
I realize that it must have looked really cool when a couple of the kids pulled off their helmets and poured their water jugs over their heads to cool off.
I realize that you wanted to do it too. Why wouldn’t you? Who wouldn’t want to pour water over their head?
But my darling son, fruit of my loins, did it not occur to you as you dumped your half gallon jug over your head that you had gatorade not water.
I mean I realize that you think you live in a sitcom. And it was sort of funny when you stuck your tongue out and shook your head so gatorade came flying off your hair, and you said, “Mmmmm refreshing!” But son, we were all laughing AT you, not with you.
Then I had to drive you home in my car and you were dripping sticky gatorade everywhere. Next time you are walking home.
Love,
Mom
The last game of the season was on Tuesday. The other team didn’t show up. So the boys played a scrimmage game with some of the Dads, the umpire, and a few other older kids who were there. Those are the games that always seem to be the most fun. You are reminded why you agreed to drive them all over hell’s half acre every day.
After the “game” we had a cook out to mark the end of the season. The boys all ate their weight in hotdogs and junk food. Then they grabbed their stuff and went to the small Little League field and had their own homerun derby. A few short years ago they struggled to hit the balls, now they can hit them over the fence at will.
The sun was going down and we lit some latterns under a pavillion, the parents all sitting around chatting. We have spent five seasons sitting together. Our little boys are now bigger than us.
*****
I had to go to the town hall to get birth certificates for my boys who are playing football. The photocopied versions I handed in were not acceptable. Honestly, I never realized that I did not have the official sealed versions.
My 13 yr old and 3 yr old were in the car with me. I pulled up to the town hall and before I could even turn the car off, my oldest said, “I’ll stay here. Can you leave the radio and air conditioner on?”
He apparently has not heard about the price of gas. I offered up the choices of sitting in the hot car in silence with all the windows rolled down or coming in with me. I am sure I don’t have to tell you what he chose.
Meanwhile my 3 yr old unbuckled his car seat and spent the entire time I was negotiating with my 13 yr old screaming, “I coming wif you, Mommy! I coming wif you, Mommy!”
I went inside with Miles, where he wanted to “help” me with everything. He wanted to open the doors. He wanted to push the buttons. He wanted to ride the elevator even though we were already on the correct floor. To which I said, ‘Why the hell not!’ What do I have to do that is so important it can’t wait five minutes for an elevator ride.
I don’t know if it is because I was young and selfish when I had my first children, or if it is because I am so acutely aware of the passage of time now, but the “help” doesn’t bother in the least anymore. I inwardly grimmace at how rushed and impatient I used to be. At three years old I am still the light of his life. He wants to go with me everywhere. He frequently tells me how much he loves me and grabs my face with his chubby hands, or is it my chubby face with his hands?
All too soon he will prefer to wait in the car. Riding the elevator up and down alone just won’t be as much fun.
This little farm backs up to the football field. My younger kids love going over to the fence and playing with the goats. They learned this week that there is a low votage electrical fence inside of the wooden one.
Of course they had to keep touching it with their hands. Clearly they do not learn as quickly as the goats.
The most popular channels at our house are Discovery, History, Nikelodeon, and Disney. Sometimes Miles has a hard time keeping them straight. But just because I haven’t seen SpongeBob hosting an episode of Dirty Jobs doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.
Three Year Old: Mom, how fast do the Cheetah Girls run?
Me: I don’t think they run so much as sing, baby.
Three Year Old: They are CHEETAH GIRLS. How fast do they RUN? (Said with extra loud emphasis so that my feeble brain could comprehend the obvious question.)
Me (sensing there is no point in arguing): Very fast. I think they run very fast.
Three Year Old: Cool.
Notes from the Trenches
fighting the war on tantrums since 1994