So I never told you about the time sorta recently where I witnessed a hit and run in a parking lot. Mainly because I find it to be an embarrassing story. But since when does that stop me?
It was dark. And I do not see well in the dark. Okay, so none of us REALLY do… but I’m worse than most of us. Or, most of you. In the future, I’ll be a better accident witness if it happens in the daytime. Wreck your cars around me with this in mind, please.
I went to the mall to exchange a dress.
A gray one for a green one.
For a church thing. In case you care.
I think I’m stalling.
A couple of girls got in a pickup and backed up out of a parking space at a weird angle. And slammed into a pickup parked opposite. A guy a few cars away was putting bags in his trunk. He looked up, but kept to himself.
The truck with the girls pulled very slowly right back into their original parking space.
And then the guy who had seen it all got in his car and drove away.
And the girls thought the coast was clear of all witnesses.
Having not seen me, or having correctly assumed I could hardly see a thing in the dark or that I’d never remember their license plate number.
Which I didn’t.
But I tried to sneak up on them and say the license plate number out loud a few times. And then the numbers and letters went right out of my head before I could write them down. Poof. Gone.
Am. Smart. Yo. Beware.
But I got the first few letters. Or numbers. I don’t remember. And I wrote a little note on this cute pink paisley paper that I keep in the center console in my car for such occasions. It said something like, “Hi…. I saw a black pickup back up and hit YOUR pickup and then drive off… sorry about that. See that dent in the back of your truck? This is how that happened. And this is what I got of their license plate… sorry I didn’t get more…. and here is my name and number and I’d be happy to talk to you. Good luck.”
Or something equally if not even more lame. I put it under the windshield wiper.
And then went in to exchange the gray dress for the green one. Because… gray? Really?
So I decided I had not involved myself QUITE enough yet and I asked the saleslady for the phone number for Mall Security. And I called them. And… I don’t mean to be, well, mean. But they didn’t sound real… sharp. It seemed as if they were shocked that a person from the general public had obtained their phone number, and USED IT, and now was discussing a matter that involved real security issues. You know. The SECURITY people. I think they were having a slow night, in at least a couple different ways.
While I was on the phone with them, I walked back outside and sat in the car. And then two babies came out. Well that sounds wrong. I did not have twins.
I just mean that two VERY YOUNG boys who might have been old enough to drive came out and got in the truck with the pink paisley notepaper and the ugly dent in the back.
So I told the security people that they should come talk to these babies. My idea. Even though they shoulda already been on the way. In my very judgmental opinion.
So THEN I got out and ran over to the babies reading the pink paisley notepaper and was glad to see they were old enough to read at least.
And here comes the cringe worthy part. They totally missed the point. They looked at the dent in the back for a fleeting second and then blew it off.
And started clarifying with all the wrong questions.
“So YOU’RE Kelsey, and THIS RIGHT HERE is your phone number?”
“What are you doing tonight?”
Right (Unasked) Questions:
“Has mall security or police been notified?”
“Why didn’t you get the rest of the license plate #?”
“Where can I send a thank you gesture of diet coke and chocolate?”
It was…. awful. I mentioned how way young these boys are? Yes. At one point I remember shaking my head back and forth and actually saying the words, “It’s dark. And you can’t see very well. But I AM THIRTY FOUR and I have FOUR children.”
And when one of them said, “But they’re not with you now, right?” that was another really Wrong Question.
I said good luck and drove off and wished I had not given them my phone number. Or name. And was just glad I could escape before one of them used the word ‘cougar.’ It was probably forthcoming, and that needed to be avoided at all costs.
I spent much of the rest of the night saying, “Um, sorry, I don’t… remember,” to the endless questions asked by a very industrious sounding police officer who called repeatedly.
This police officer hunted down that truck in record time and interrogated the girls and swore that he was 99% sure it was them but he needed them to admit it or for me to remember more. But I didn’t. I was already trying to block it all out.
And the babies never did call, for which I am quite grateful. They probably realized I was easily old enough to be their mother.
And then I forgot about it. Which was what I wanted. Until a couple weeks ago when Mike called me and said I had to return a call right that second from a mediator settling the accident case i witnessed. Which I guess means that the local police guy probably DID get those girls to admit something.
So I got off the treadmill at the gym and returned the guy’s call and he wasn’t there and he never called me back and I think that’s the end of it all and I’m glad.
And that is how NOT to be an eyewitness. Instead, remember details. The more, the better. And even if you do mean well, don’t end up in a dark parking lot handing out your phone number on cute paisley paper to way underage boy children. It’s highly avoidable.
And now I know.
One day soon the Almighty will call an intervention for me. It’ll probably happen in the bathroom during Seth-4yr’s naptime, because that’s when I can really listen - to anyone – most effectively.
The topic will be lip gloss addiction. My collection is out of control. Every pink, red, berry, or coral color that exists? I have it in a little tube with a convenient wand. There is no need to ever add to this collection. And therein lies the problem. Because I’d like to. A lot.
I can feel this day of reckoning coming.
Just acknowledging and sharing. That’s what I do. I’ll keep you posted. I’ll probably take awful, grainy iPhone pictures and swear to avoid Sephora.com.
*Seth-4yr is fine, after having an allergic reaction to I don’t know what. He was up all night. As were we. The good news is he did not throw up on my head, but there were a few close calls.
“Turn it up, Mom,” said Caden-6yr from the backseat. He often does this, and I oblige and turn up the radio and then he talks and talks and I can’t hear a word he’s saying because I DID turn it up and so I turn it down to ask him what he said, and then he gets really annoyed.
Caden-6yr is easygoing and sunny. And seeing him so easily annoyed shouldn’t entertain me, but it does.
One day a few weeks ago he asked me to turn it up, and before I could, he added, “yeah. I’d know that voice anywhere.”
“What voice?” I asked him.
“THAT voice. You know. What’s-his-name. You took me to see him sing.”
“Yeah. I’d know his voice anywhere.”
“I love it that you even say that… but that’s not Willie on the radio right now.”
There was a long pause.
“I probably would have known that IF YOU HAD TURNED. IT. UP.”
I couldn’t possibly address the attitude. I was trying not to laugh. And cry. And beam with pride that my 6 yr old even thought to claim he’d always recognize Willie Nelson’s voice.
I had the exact same feelings later in the week when he walked through the kitchen and recited the 23rd Psalm. I didn’t know he could do that. (I didn’t laugh – I cried.)
Yes. A couple years ago, I DID insist that Mike and I take the boys to a Willie Nelson concert. All the women in my family have a thing for Willie. Always have. It’s unexplainable. Mike doesn’t really get it, but he DID get great tickets and that is more than enough for me. I’m a realistic sort, and didn’t think we’d get too many more chances to do such a thing… Willie is getting on up there in years, after all.
My mother went too, and Willie waved at her. Yes. At her. I was in the car with the kids by that point, because DUH you don’t take kids to a Willie Nelson concert – even if you sincerely want to pass on your family tradition of Willie Nelson adoration – and I almost got very violent with a drunk lady behind me who spilled beer on Ethan-10yr’s head and then said lots of awful things and instead I walked away, but it was real close to getting real ugly and I was about to find my inner brawling redneck heathen self. And that definitely would have been the appropriate time and place for such a discovery, except for the ‘I brought my kids and mother’ part.
My mother flirted and waved and was determined to catch Willie’s eye. She wore a bright orange sweater, and a ‘yoo hoo… over here’ smile. She comes prepared, that one. And? It worked. Of course it did. She was right up by the stage when he held the gaze of the short brunette in the bright orange sweater and waved.
And I was in the car. With kids who smelled like beer.
But my 6 yr old would know Willie’s voice anywhere. And he can recite the 23rd Psalm and who knows what else that I just haven’t heard yet.
Oh! And Willie…? He is ‘following’ my sister on Twitter. I don’t even know what that means.
Except that Willie has decided to follow my sister. Good luck with that, Willie, that girl moves around the world rather quickly.
As usual, he’ll be in Austin on July 4th. I’m thinking I might leave the kids at home and take a road trip. (and maybe take my eye-catching, orange sweater wearing mother.)
3 boys, 7 days… equals…. how many baseball games and practices…? 10. I think. A whole lot. It’s a whole lot that seems like a whole lot MORE if you don’t really understand baseball.
I get (and love!) football. And basketball. And even golf and soccer. But not baseball.
There are different rules for Ethan-10yr than there are for Caden-6yr. Making understanding what is actually going on all that much harder.
So during practices I paint my nails. I read. I write. I call people. Text people. I go for runs. (Okay, did that once this week and it was a lovely learning experience about weedy rural fields and sore ankles and a newly surgically restored knee and wow, God, You made the ground SO much rougher than a treadmill and suddenly that matters.)
During games I sort of watch. If something important happens, I usually miss it, because I like to watch the people around me who really ARE watching who seem to know more than I do. (you didnt’ follow that, did you?) And listen to the sorts of things they yell. “Good swing!” “Good eye!” “Pick you a good one!”
My favorite, though, is “Make him pitch to you!” I think it means, “don’t just swing at anything – be sure it’s not a ‘ball.’ But it always cracks me up. Because… the pitcher is on the mound. The batter is ready. The pitcher is, you know, GOING TO PITCH because that’s inevitable, so I love it when people yell to make him do it. As if the batter has a say in the matter.
Wouldn’t yelling “Make him pitch to you!” totally infuriate the pitcher? Or is that the point?
If it’s the time of night where I say to the 3 boys, “go get in bed and I’ll come tuck you in” and I’m ON MY WAY… and one of the boys yells, “Make her tuck you in!” I think that would irritate me beyond belief. I’m DOING IT ALREADY, it’s my job -and Mike’s – and one of us is absolutely in this house every night on that pitcher’s mound, about to kiss and tuck in sweet babies and it’s HAPPENING and the kid about to get tucked has no say in the matter whatsoever — so pretending otherwise is silly. And is it the same thing? I have no idea. Analogies. Not my thing. Kinda like baseball.
(So baseball analogies should surely NEVER be attempted, yeah, I know.)
Don’t even get me started on the scoring. Geez. If I can get that distracted and confused by one little thing that the fans yell, you get the depth of the problem here.
The day is GORGEOUS. bright blue sky, puffy white clouds, and 73 wonderful degrees whispering to me to come outside already…
and i will. as soon as Seth-4yr snuggles in and starts his nap, I shall go out and sit in the sun and act like a plant.
There is not laundry outside.
And barely-there grape leaves starting to grow on the twirling vines by the back fence. Late blooming, tall white tulips are just finishing and dropping their petals… and clematis, irises, dianthus, cannas and daylilies all getting ready for their turn.
Which reminds me.
A Short Tale of Two Irises
(It’s better than it sounds, I just suck at titles and always have and it’s okay.)
Two years ago I often talked to a very sweet little girl named Iris. Her older brother was in Caden-6yr’s preschool class – the same one Seth-4yr attends now – and we’d talk in the hall while we waited for her brother and for Caden-then-4yr. (And how confusing is that.)
Now she’s in the class next door to Seth-4yr, and so I’ve seen her all year – but we haven’t really talked much. One day in the hall – two years ago - I asked her about her being named “Iris” and if she knew what the flowers looked like. And she didn’t.
Even though she was only 2, i was APPALLED. I remember looking at her mother and thinking, should I ask? Should I ask her, “Did you really name your baby Iris and then not SHOW her one? Or is she just 2, and she forgot that you did that…? Because… come on.”
But I didn’t. I’m not big on small talk, anyway. I prefer to have these long conversations in my head. So, I went home and dug up some irises, put them in a little terra cotta pot, and took them to her.
She received them with justified skepticism. Her mother looked much the same.
And that was two years ago and I forgot about it. But this week, Iris came running up to me very excited and said, “THANK YOU! You gave me those irises and THANK YOU! They’re pretty!”
She said it as if I’d just given them to her recently. She said it as if she actually remembered. She said it as if she had just seen them bloom and now understood the beauty and meaning of her name for the first time in her life.
Okay. Not really.
But isn’t that sweet?
And, incidentally, her mother is one of the people who took very good care of Seth-4yr when a farm implement ate his hand a week or so ago and I was not there like I should have been.
So, yeah, I’m real glad I didn’t confront Iris’ mom that day about why her toddler couldn’t thoroughly explain the origin of her name to me when I asked her a couple years ago.
Fresh from the iPhone, taken just this morning… an iris:
Ironically, I do not know this iris’ name.
The Only One Sprawled on the Floor Looking Pathetic is the Dog. (And That’s Really How It Should Be.)
A small amount of time can change a lot. one day you can be flopped on the floor, ridiculously glassy eyed and pathetic – and the next day it’s all different. It’s all good.
There was a short, significant conversation with Caden-6yr that cleared a lot of things up for me. He’s fine. And not busy hating or fearing me. He wanted me to shut up about it already and go for a walk. So I hugged him until he made me stop, and then we went.
It was cold. I’m always cold.
And i always forget that my motivation to go for a walk with wiggly children is to look at the gorgeousness within the neighbors’ flowerbeds, and the wiggly children’s motivation is to find money on the ground. There’s an odd amount of money to be found on the streets around here, and my kids are way tuned in to that.
This morning, Mike left early. And something really bizarre happened. I slept in. And the 3 little boys got dressed and ate breakfast and cleaned up breakfast and put on shoes and jackets and got backpacks ready and said “please” and “thank you” TO EACH OTHER while I hid under the covers – now wide awake from SHOCK – with my mouth hanging open and wondering what was going on. But liking it too much to disturb it with my presence.
If there were a super-rare exotic bird sighting – you wouldn’t just barge in to the bird’s space and scare it off. You’d want it to stay. Forever. And love it and soak up all the amazing, unexpected beauty and blessing, right? That’s what I did. With this still unexplained rare, exotic phenomenon called Spontaneous Brotherly Harmony.
On a normal sort of morning, Seth-4yr will declare war on the concept of having to wear pants. And that’s fun. Then he’ll concede a need for pants, but they have to be jeans, and the light blue pair and no that pair is too dark and that pair has a hole, and he likes holes, but not those holes, and those jeans come down too far and touch his feet and on and on and on. And then Mike will walk by with a smirk and say, “wonder where he gets that.”
Caden-6yr, on any given morning, will find endless brotherly dynamics to tweak and be dramatic about.
Ethan-10yr will forget where he put his bag, forget to put anything in his bag, forget a belt or a jacket, and forget what he’s forgotten, and it will often take a team of two adults with a spray bottle of water and brushes and a hair dryer to tame his crazy hair.
But not today.
I have no idea what happened today.
But I like it.
Unless they’re all getting sick. Or growing up. I really am not comfortable with either of those scenarios.
So it’s hard to transition from “Odd Kid Harmony” to “Pitfalls of Dirty Gifts”, but that little row of asterisks is supposed to make that possible.
It didn’t work.
But I said I’d tell you, and I try to do what I say I will, even if it’s ridiculous. So. If you happen to still care, here we go.
Need a gift for a husband who has absolutely everything, and if he doesn’t, he’ll go buy it before you even know he wants it? Because those people are way hard to shop for. A solution….
Sterling silver collar stays engraved with a variety of racy little messages to uh, brighten his day.
Do NOT purchase if any of the following apply:
*you think dirty collar stays somehow violate your faith or moral code (no judgment! i’m good with them – others wouldn’t be. no big deal.)
*you have kids who can read, and your husband tends to leave things out on the bathroom counter. And then he might freak out when a kid comes in to have his hair tamed and your husband is the sort who would make a superhero type lunge with a bath towel to cover up all the sort of innocent looking bathroom clutter and then get all grumpy/annoyed for no reason at all when you can’t stop laughing at him and you’re laughing/crying and you can’t explain any of it to the puzzled kid with crazy hair who just needs a brush.
*you tend to send off the dry cleaning without checking pockets and shirts for items that will embarrass you THOROUGHLY when they are returned. Particularly if you know the sweet grandfatherly type guy who picks up and delivers your dry cleaning at your door and often has a good hour to stand on the porch and discuss things with you while you wonder just which ones he saw. Because it matters.
(Email me if you want purchase info, and I’ll send you the link)
This morning on the way to preschool, I swerved a little to avoid driving over a dead skunk. I murmured, “Sorry, buddy. I kinda know how you feel. It’s that kind of day.” I don’t often talk to dead animals I pass on the street. But today is different.
A while back I got a catalog in the mail from some company selling expensive, wrinkled looking, flimsy women’s clothing – probably marketed at a group younger than I am. Although I don’t believe in ironing either, and that’s probably how they got my name.
The models were upset looking. And sprawled across entry way rugs and living room floors – as if they were GOING to go somewhere in their perfectly chic wrinkled, flimsy clothing, and then just fell down all sad and energy-less and instead they just laid there until someone came along and took their photo.
A bizarre way to try to make clothes look good. (They didn’t.)
But memorable. And sadly, I GET IT. That day – the day the catalog came in the mail? I laughed. But today?
If my clothes were flimsy, I could just sprawl and wait for a photographer to walk in.
I’m totally feeling the over the top, let’s just lay on the floor and be pathetic vibe though.
There’s nothing wrong. I mean, sure, that whole incident could really just be deleted, Divine Style, and that would be good. By the way, God NEVER does that for me. If He does for you, don’t tell me. Not today. Wait til I’m not sprawled in an entryway like roadkill.
Partly, it’s the leftover Worst Mom Ever feelings, which I”m not quite ready to give up yet. They need to be stored up, savored in an awful, lasting way so that I do not let myself off too easily for something so horrendous. They need to be serenaded with playlist of Kristofferson, Cash, and Lovett and washed down with a Diet Coke on the rocks.
I am a hard livin’ woman.
This is obnoxious. I know that. And I’m almost done. I will not subject you to more of this. I’m just not there yet. So. Tomorrow or the next day I’ll cheer up and tell you all about the possible pitfalls of buying sterling silver collar stays and having them thoughtfully, lovingly engraved with dirty messages. Oh! Funny. If you put it that way, it’s SO predictable and I SO should have known all the things that could go wrong and somehow I… didn’t. Yes. Well. Roadkill is hardly known for its ability to recognize oncoming conflicts.
okay, so I disappeared for awhile. and I’m not really back. I’m in a funk. i’ll give you the highlights and then you’ll say, “oooh. yeah, that’s crazy. go away back to where you’re hiding and come back later.”
Monday Seth-4yr went on a field trip and even though I am way overprotective and always go on those things, I didn’t. Because I was busy. And he got his hand stuck in an antique corn sheller. I don’t know what that looks like, and google images has a lot of pictures that look nothing like one another. It was rusty and spiky, from what I hear. And it ate my baby’s hand. And I was not there.
The school called Mike – after the really great EMT medical type parents who WERE in attendance – took care of Seth-4yr and requested their buddies deliver an ice pack. So an ambulance came. To deliver an ice pack. And I was NOT. THERE.
I’m having trouble with that. Can you tell?
Mike took him to a clinic, and I met him there, and there were x-rays and he’s fine. His hand was bruised and swollen, mangled and crushed, and covered in cuts but otherwise fine.
A couple of days ago my mom asked Seth-4yr what he had learned from this experience and he loudly, cheerfully sang, “NOTHING!!!”
And… I’m pretty much over this. That was Monday. And he’s all right. And I need to vow to be there next time, and just move on.
But last night…. last night was not good. I’m still getting hate mail from the time I wrote about spanking Caden-6yr in a restaurant in Tucumcari. And that was NOTHING compared to this.
I should preface this with a brief explanation that although I am quite small – you do not want to meet me in a dark alley. For a lot of reasons, various professionals and I have managed to turn me into a physically tough little fighting machine if the need should ever arise – and there have been reasons to need this ability. So you wouldn’t know it to look at me, but it’s there. Hiding really well under my costume of petite, harmless looking, sometimes frumpy mom-ishness.
So last night I am getting ready to take Caden-6yr and Seth-4yr to the gym with me. We are the only ones home. Caden-6yr has been wild and crazy, and thus instructed to chill it on down a notch. Since the kids are not supposed to hang out in the closet Mike and I share (that’s where we keep the nerf swords, shut it, that really is the reason why), and because I can hear Seth-4yr talking in Caden-6yr’s bedroom, I’m very sure both boys are in Caden-6yr’s room. However. Someone runs at me fast from the closet area and wraps arms around me hard. From behind.
And I think I know where everyone in the house is.
And I have been ridiculously well trained in this scenario.
And I always wondered if I’d remember what to do.
And I didn’t.
Because it happened so fast, there really wasn’t any ‘remembering’ to it. It just happened.
I flung off the arms that were around me, stood on my left foot and hooked my right leg behind me and twirled pretty fast – flinging my would-be attacker across the kitchen.
But of course it was Caden-6yr.
Who just wanted a hug and hadn’t seen that reaction coming any more than I did.
It was awful. And then I didn’t even have the sense to scoop him up and apologize. I was all, “WHAT WAS THAT?!” Because there was serious adrenaline going and it was not yet clear (somehow) that the baby just wanted a hug and was being kinda wild and silly but there’s not a thing wrong with that, he’s only six, and this is his very safe home, and hello? i’m his mommy. And mommies do not do crap like that. Ahhh, but I did.
Eventually we sat on the couch and he cried, and I cried and I tried to explain how that had possibly come to be, and what unforeseeable (to me) combination of factors had led up to that particular incident, but I don’t know that any of it mattered. If I’d known it was him, of course that wouldn’t have happened. I’m hoping he believes that. He doesn’t understand the whole mom is a secret ninja thing, or why that is – and I don’t want him to. After it was all over – all the talking and crying and flinging of innocent children – I asked if he was okay.
And he looked at me with giant, tear-filled blue eyes and said, “I just can’t stop thinking about what you did to me.”
I know what he means.
Feel like worst mom ever.
I should have waited until I could write this and somehow have a better ending. usually, that’s what I’d do.
I don’t know that I’d ever write again, though. That day might not come.
(Caden-6yr, if you ever read this one day, I’m very sorry.)
Fevers come and go like gnats around Seth-4yr lately, who is trying hard not to get croup. I appreciate his effort tremendously. If everyone is way healthy there is a possibility of a 1.5 hr church-style opportunity later for me to be completely alone. No kids. (Mike’s out of town.) No obligations.
This 90 minute block of time is looking sooo good right now.
I have no idea what I’d actually do, because I’m quite boring. But boring and alone for just a little while… sounds lovely.
If Mike were in town, he’d say, “go. be alone. do something.” because he’s really good like that when I get the OH MY GOSH I’M KINDA CRAZY WITH ALL THE KIDS, THEY ARE CUTE BUT WHY SOOOOO MANY AND DO THEY ALL REALLY HAVE TO TALK AND OTHERWISE MAKE NOISE? glassy eyed stare. I get that way more whenever they’ve been sick, which isn’t often. But because he isn’t in town, I helpfully sent a text saying “when you get back I really need some TIME.” Then he wrote back something like, “you are a great mom and I appreciate you and…” a whole lotta other stuff that was sweet and perhaps indicating a totally unnecessary guilty conscience for being out of town. And then I had to write back, “Am not awesome. Just apologized to Caden-6yr for my attitude. I am awful. But thanks.” Or something pretty much exactly like that.
Oooh! During that 90 minutes of possible free time, I could wander around a nursery and ogle the newest tomato varieties.
See? Am boring. And maybe creepy.
it was the sort of unrestful night of sleep that comes when you have two little boys and all their elbows and knees finding comfort in jabbing you between the shoulderblades. and in the ribs. and one giant furry, purry cat who was safely on the other side of the house, locked out, until the little boy invasion left the door open for him as well.
as i’ve said before, i like to scoot way down and hang my feet off - and no one else in this house does that, creating a where-the-blankets-go conflict. okay, probably no one anywhere does that, except for my dad. so then the covers tug of war raged all night, with me stopping to check foreheads for fevers and get very annoyed that i really NEEDED them there, or I wouldn’t sleep at all and would worry and have to go across the house to check on them and this probably WAS better. I like to sleep waaaay down in the bed, and practically hanging off the very edge of the SIDE of the bed. Unless there are two small boys and it’s better that they be separated and then I”m in the middle which is claustrophobic and the opposite wonderful feeling of imminent faceplanting into the carpet. Which I like.
all those elbows and knees jabbing me is probably what it’s like to be in the dryer with a pair of Caden-6yr’s pants. It seems fine at first, but then pebbles and rocks and sharp pointy things fall out of his pockets and smash around in there. the other clothes are probably all, “this will be a nice restful drying session” and then BAM BAM BAM with the boulders and all.
speaking of the dryer. There is a large blob of gum in it. I don’t know if it went through the wash in a previously-chewed way, or an unchewed, wrapped way. Yes, it matters. One involves more spit and germs and it’s just IN there with all the otherwise clean clothes and rocks and boulders, thanks Caden-6yr.
I’m not sure if leaving it there is the way to go, but I’m hesitant to scrape it off. By the time I noticed it, it was blackened from heat and lint and it really isn’t bothering anyone in there. Just me. Out here. I think because of its blackened state it’s pretty harmless to the clothes.
But still. That’s icky, and it should be cleaned. But if i scrape it out and can’t get it all – which I think is highly likely after all the time I’ve spent bending and sticking my head in and peering and studying – then there will be a smaller blob of gum in there that is NOT blackened and covered in lint that leaves the otherwise clean clothes and boulders alone.
And I definitely do not want that.
Oh dear GOD. Seth-4yr just came and held up a small mirror and said, “You can look at yourself, Mommy!”
And I did. Actually it was sort of a horrified double-take.
It’s 8:34 am and clearly that was NOT a restful night’s sleep. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy. That’s always a great combination. I’m rounding up these kids that are apparently healthy enough to run and scream in far away bedrooms and taking us all to the gym.
And tonight I will remember they are blessed with health, tell them so, and send them back to bed.
And the cat, too.