Originally published in the Miami News-Record on August 16, 2015
While I was given supernatural mom-munity a few weeks ago
when my entire family got the vile stomach bug that’s going around, apparently
my super power wore off and I succumbed this past week. Instead of getting up
on a sunshiney Tuesday morning to start our fourth year of homeschooling with
my two beloved, smiling-faced, school-aged children I instead spent the entire
day sleeping and barfing. Sam and Kady are both very independent learners and
do the vast majority of their work on their own without too awful much from me,
but I just couldn’t turn them loose on a new school year without being present.
I like to call it responsible parenting and schooling. It might also be that I
have control issues. But I digress.
Finally, after 14 horrendous hours of the worst stomach
virus I’ve had in probably 20 years (No, I’m really not exaggerating) I managed
to regain some semblance of consciousness. I wearily pleaded with my husband to
bring me a Coke. We don’t normally keep soda around the house and the last I
had bought as a treat for the 4th of July was gone. Bless his heart,
he valiantly drove to Turtle Stop to not only get a 12-pack, but also a
pre-chilled bottle for my immediate consumption. I tried really hard to not
think about how much he spent on convenience store soda and held back my desire
to tell him that he could have gotten it cheaper somewhere else. I just sipped
the dark, carbohydrate-delivering liquid that normally would never touch these
lips and tried not to see dollar signs before my eyes nor dwell on the
chemicals entering my weary body. After nibbling on some saltines and polishing
off my Coke, I left the bedroom to seek the company of my family, who I was
absolutely positive had missed some something awful during my hiatus.
It looked like they’d hosted a rave right in the middle of
our double-wide.
There were blankets strewn about the living room like they’d
made a veritable blanket fort mansion. There were Eskimo Joe’s cups in every
cup holder – one with milk that was bordering on a state I can only describe as
“thick”. The TV volume was on approximately 492 and they were watching “Storage
Wars”. Actually, no. No one was actually watching the TV. It was just on.
Apparently entertaining the blankets.
The kitchen counters looked like a family of rabid raccoons
had been turned loose to scavenge and had done so quite successfully. The
Hostess cakes I had bought as a treat just the night before (with a coupon!)
had been all but obliterated and nary a crinkly white wrapper had found a home
in the trashcan. Someone had made tea – and those who had consumed it had
wantonly set the pitcher down repeatedly on the actual counter top. We have
white counter tops and I always set the pitcher on a paper towel to avoid
stains. People, there. were. stains. So many stains. The clean dishes were still safely housed in
the dishwasher and dirty ones were piled so very high in the sink. There were
crumbs EVERYWHERE. I don’t handle crumbs well. I stepped on something
questionable – I think it was raccoon poop.
And that was when I lost it. Still in my pajamas from the
previous night, my hair in the worst bed-headed state imaginable and pale as a
ghost, I’m sure I looked slightly crazier than I actually was, but that’s okay.
I like to go for dramatic effect. I think I made my point, though. The makings
of the blanket mansion were transformed into neat folded piles. Wrappers
magically danced to the trashcan. Crumbs disappeared. There were voices
mumbling “Sorry, Momma” and “Glad you’re feeling better, dear” any time they
got in my vicinity.
I think they need me. They need me to manage them. And keep
them safe from scavenging raccoons. And possibly themselves.
No comments:
Post a Comment