Forget everything I said last week.
Really….a pair of socks. It’s…..soooooo.haaaaarrrrrrd. Please tell me that I am not alone….
Forget everything I said last week.
Really….a pair of socks. It’s…..soooooo.haaaaarrrrrrd. Please tell me that I am not alone….
We all start out with big dreams for our little ones – great academics, star athlete, successful ventures, good character….. But as times change, so do our goals. Now, at the end of the day, we just pray for strong vitals.
When I started homeschooling, I had classical music playing in the background, other language curriculum on stand-by and hours coordinating good, positive socialization. Fast forward four years…..the only music in the background is my constant screaming…or theirs; forget Spanish, focus on the ABCs and subject-verb agreement, and before every playdate, we go over what they are not allowed to say and do.
Therefore, I start each Monday with a goal that we at least start school for the week.
Today, I got them started on school and went to start the laundry. I’m not sure how long I was out of it or even if it was real. But, I felt tears of joy begin to rain down my face that our family meeting from the weekend somehow made it past the initial barriers of their little minds. On Saturday, we had all met in the bathroom. My husband and I briefly discussed placing their dirty clothes actually in the hamper, instead of on top of it…in front of it….or no where near it. After our brief lesson, we allowed each child to practice. (lift lid, place clothes inside, close lid.) We even took it a step farther and tried to urge them to try it with one finger. It was tough at times, but we were all determined to master this seemingly small feat. Then, we reviewed the lesson, high-fived each other and parted ways.
I had no misconceptions that this lesson would stick somewhere between their ABCs and Math. However, today…my children surprised me and made me proud. Yes, they can hit a target with uncanny accuracy with a variety of weapons. Yes, they can shoot a basketball into the goal and hit a baseball thrown by a pitch. They are even getting decent at soccer. They are masters at their tech devices and often help us parents figure things out. However, I started wondering if I needed to get them tested since they couldn’t do simple tasks. For example, putting laundry into the hamper, putting dishes into the sink, and/or covering themselves up with a blanket that rested at their ankles. I decided to focus on these tasks…because after all, I’ll give them to wives one day. But I didn’t believe.
But today….I believe.
Check back in with me tomorrow.
So, I just returned from my very first, all-inclusive resort experience, which was way beyond my raising. Really, I shouldn’t even speak of it. However, I’m curious.
Apparently, I am a big deal with Thirty-One Gifts, and earned an all expense paid trip to the Hard Rock Resort in Cancun, Mexico. Believe it or not, I almost passed on this trip. The thought of preparing for a week away and facing the fallout was about too much to bear. Whatever, I ponied up and went.
The morning of departure, I was ready to book an earlier return flight. It was 4 am and two hours of sleep was just not going to cut it. After 4 hours of waiting at the airport, I finally boarded the plane and sat next to total strangers on my way to paradise. Fast forward two hours. I landed in Cancun, got body raped by twenty locals trying to convince me that they were my ride to the resort, aka human slavery. Thankfully, Thirty-One had actually included a picture of their man at the airport, so I had tunnel-vision for him and him, alone. I get on the bus, was offered a warm towel (not sure why)….was told another hour and ten minutes, I would be where I need to be.
Then, I arrived. Red carpets, waiters with champagne and strangers clapped my way from the bus to the check-in counter. I’m fairly certain the heavens opened up and I heard angels sing. My luggage was an after-thought, when it was delivered to my room. I had only seconds to glance down at my feet to find only ratty flip-flops, instead of ruby slippers. This was my first glance at my alternate reality for the next six days.
In hindsight, this was my first moment of ungratefulness, camouflaged in awe. This was their first jab.
For the next six days, I had FREE drinks, room service, five-star resort food, mini bar, robes, slippers, cabana boys by the lagoon, etc My shower was so perfect with multiple spickets, so I didn’t even have to scrub. If I chose to walk more than ten feet, there was a golf cart waiting for me. If I couldn’t choose between desserts or appetizers, I was brought both. I couldn’t decide between manis, pedis, hydrotherapy and massages, so I just used my room credit and enjoyed them all. If I needed a snack after ten feet of walking, there was a buffet of choices. There were guys to clean the seaweed from the lagoon…really,…true story. My flesh was so sacred, people were keeping fungus from touching it – or so I chose to believe.
After it’s all said and done…is it worth it? Should it be allowed that people are treated this way? I mean, really….think about it. If I had ever been incited to violence, it was upon my return.
Shouldn’t “All-inclusive” include a debriefing session? Are we that careless with the American people??
My Monday Moans….DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME!!!!!! Ugh. Stupid.Stupid.Stupid.
“They” say that you either lose an hour or gain an hour of sleep. I need a name for this “they.” And an address.
Monday, I woke up two hours late (3 if you went by my clock) and felt that I had hosted a WWF tournament in my bed. I stumbled to the bathroom and then fell into my toilet. I refused to think about whether or not one of my little angels actually flushed this time because it was too early for such ridiculous notions. If I could invent something for my fellow mom friends of little boys, it would be a self-putting-down-the-lid toilet. Preferably with a timer…and an ejection seat. Unfortunately, my Monday didn’t stop there. I poured my full cup of coffee all of the counter and at supper-time, I let a piece of chicken fly right out of my shake and bake bag…. And I proudly blame it all on Daylight Savings Time (DST).
One of the most ridiculous notions of mankind. Right up there with tanning beds and Farmville.
Advocates of this STUPID notion believe the following.
It all began with…..”Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” Or “The early bird gets the worm,” as it was so shortened for country folk. It’s all lies. LIES!
Here it is a Monday already and I’m forced to pick only one thing that I am moaning about for our weekly Monday Moans Event. I went through several ideas in my head and had a hard time deciding on this week’s vent. It didn’t help that every time I sat down at my computer, one of my little darlings bellowed out another need – a very clear and present show of disrespect. And then I had it…………
My kids have the patience of a gnat…a baby gnat….a baby gnat on acid. I see this over and over in our daily lives. They get this from their father.
In fact, the only time that they exhibit any patience at all is when they intentionally wait for me to sit down before belting out a reason that they need me to get up. Sometimes, when they are feeling particularly vindictive, they wait until I’m on a different floor of our house. Special, aren’t they?
I always imagine them on pins and needles, anxiously waiting for me to get settled, as they try to shush each other. Perched on the edge of their seats, covering their snickers with their little hands, they try to keep their patience in check. Wait for it……waaaiiiitttt….just one more minute….almost time….No…wait, she hasn’t sat down yet!….now! “MOOOOOOMMMMM!!!”
Why do I even holler from the kitchen or upstairs, asking anyone in this entire house and neighborhood if they need anything while I am up??!!!! I even offer specific suggestions like, “Does anyone need a drink, WHILE I AM UP?” or “Should I bring snacks, WHILE I AM UP?” or “Can I bring anything up/down stairs, WHILE I AM UP?” or my favorite and complete waste of oxygen, when I ask, “Does anyone need anything, WHILE I AM OUT?”
Are these not clear? Am I confusing in my intentions?
I have arrived at the only possible answer. They do it on purpose.
First of all, I apologize for missing my Monday Moans post yesterday. I was very busy moaning over the fact that my stove broke up with me. I am still processing this loss, and hope that writing will help me grieve properly.
I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t know it was coming. He had been derelict in his cooking for weeks now. Heck, he had even yelled at me multiple times in his nasty, F10 beeping language. I just kept hoping it would get better with time.
Apparently, leaving wasn’t enough for him though. The vindictive piece of crap had no doubt talked with my dryer about his intentions to quit this house. That smooth-talking piece of metal convinced my dryer to leave me too. Well, I hope they find greener scrap yards and rust every day they have left. I hope it rains on them, a lot. Actually, I hope a hurricane of bleach and vinegar settles directly on them. Sorry, that must be the pain talking.
To add insult to injury, on our way to Lowe’s, I made the mistake of telling my husband just what I thought of these traitorous punks. Who did they think they were? They ain’t no better than us! Did I not do my part? There wasn’t a day that their talents were not put to use. (This pain causes me to use double negatives, sorry.) Sure, I was a little slack on keeping them scrubbed clean, but I had to spread my love equally among their other friends. I did the best I could. I am only one person.
The truck was listening. …. the whole time.
We ignored his dimming lights. We had a stove to buy.
Low and behold, Lowe’s had free delivery and haul off, so why wouldn’t we say yes? Would you not have said yes? We had no idea that this clear and present show of disrespect to our pickup truck would be the last straw. If we could only turn back time and have a do-over…….
We barely made it home. He kept dimming his lights for miles….and then he stopped his gauges….then he just bowed up and quit. He didn’t even see fit to groan out a feeble, “How do you like me now?”
Well, piss on all of them. It wasn’t me, it was them. I deserve better than them. We were just at different points in our lives. We needed space.
I will survive this, but I won’t let it go. I will relive it at the end of every month, as I make another payment for their replacements…..at 24.999999% APR. (Do they actually think the six nines offer a marketing landslide over just rounding it up?) Ugh.
This week’s Monday Moans is brought to you by empty containers. We survive so much during our week, as parents, that you would think that something as minor as empty containers shouldn’t merit an entire blog post. Well, you are clearly more mentally stable than I am, to overlook this clear and present show of disrespect.
Before leaving for the grocery store, I dutifully check the fridge, freezer and pantry for the staples that my family just can’t live without – or better yet, for those things that I don’t want to live with my family that would have to live without. Great…things are looking good. I won’t need much for this trip.
Anyway, fast forward passed grocery shopping, through the five trips up two flights of stairs and losing all feeling in my wrists…cause I mistakenly think I can carry that one extra bag…or ten. Now, my blood pressure is surely through the roof, just in time to deal with my kids prowling through the bags to grab whatever they can’t wait 10 minutes for. I start yelling and they start scattering, like rats on a ship.
Now comes the time for the beginning stages of my sub-polar meltdown. It begins with opening the freezer to move a box of Popsicles to the side to make room. Wait…this box is empty. And.Its.In.The.Freezer. Toss the box in the general direction of the trashcan and try to carry on.
Fridge – you are up. I move the jug of juice towards the back of the fridge and two 2-liters fall over. Hmmm…how odd. Oh, they fell over because they are empty. And.In.The.Fridge. The little shits. You begin to check other containers, just in the name of research. Both of the ketchup and ranch dressing bottles are empty. Fanfreakintastic. It’s getting a tad bit harder to breathe.
Now comes my favorite – the Pantry. By this point, I am on a mission to find more evidence to add to my tirade. I pull out an empty cereal box, an empty jar of peanut butter and an empty box of pop tarts. Awesome. Oh, and I remove the jug of juice and return it to the fridge.
What is wrong with them? Do they need to be tested? Surely, this is a warning sign that they aren’t running on all 8 cylinders!
Now a three-foot semi-circle around my trashcan is littered with crappy, Ingles bags and five empty containers and then there are the three that I threw into the next room during my fit. I stomp over to the cabinet under my sink to jerk out a trash bag. Guess What? No, really guess. Did you guess?? That is right…empty box. NO TRASH BAGS. Juuuust….the…box.
There is one container that isn’t empty and so I will have my glass of wine and mentally flip them off as I enjoy a dry salad.
Guess what, boys? I am making french fries tonight!
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