No Problem

After a long, stressful day, I was stretched comfortably out on my bed, watching Law and Order and crocheting Younger’s afghan, when my husband appeared in the doorway.

“I thought the refrigerator needed to be cleaned out, so I dumped the food into the trash,” he told me, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “But I didn’t really feel like washing the bowls, so I put them back in the refrigerator.” He paused. “Is that a problem?”

Nah, no problem. All I need is one wife on my jury and I’m assured of an acquittal.

Turning Blue Eyes Brown

While waiting for the mechanic shop to replace the tires on Elder’s car, the two boys and I had lunch at a local fast food restaurant. And, while we were munching on our sandwiches, the conversation somehow landed on the color of Elder’s hair, its paleness apparently a continued source of good-natured teasing amongst his classmates.

“It’s getting darker, though,” I told him.

The amusement fell from his face. “It’s not getting darker.” He paused. “Is it?”

“A little.” But before he could relax in the belief that he would retain that piece of his identity, I added, “But it will keep getting darker. Like mine did.”

“I don’t want it to get darker,” he objected.

I shrugged with helpless empathy. “I know. I didn’t like it, either.”

“But my eyes are still blue,” he argued.

Confused, I blinked at him. “That doesn’t have anything to do with your hair color. My eyes are blue.”

He leaned across the table for a closer look. To assist him, I opened my eyes wide then batted my lashes.

“Well, Dad’s eyes are brown,” he continued stubbornly.

“Your Dad’s eyes are green.”

For goodness sake, halfway through the school year, his Advanced Algebra instructor has yet to teach him anything he didn’t already know.

But the color of his parents’ eyes…well, now, there’s a stumper.

Fur Balls of Evil

Along with our two on-the-bigger-side-of-medium, more-indoor-than-outdoor dogs, we also have three cats, two of which are actually giant fur balls with eyes. They sit on the porch staring through the glass door at the dogs sprawled on comfortable pillows, their feline heads tilted inquiringly to the side as they try to surmise how the interlopers managed to gain access beyond the garage.

And I sit on the sofa, determinedly avoiding the accusing glances that they inevitably throw towards their humans.

So, I guess, the biggest fur ball decided to take his revenge at the first opportunity.

During the winter, the cats reside in our garage, as does our freezer. Needing to retrieve a package of meat for dinner, I tried to encourage the pale yellow cat perched in the middle of the chipped, white lid to find another resting spot. Instead, he settled a little more comfortably in his position.

Then he smirked at me.

So, I lifted the lid slowly, thinking he would grasp my intentions. Apparently, he didn’t, his claws attempting to dig into the freezer as he fought to maintain his balance on the sudden slant. Figuring I could work with the small space I had managed to create between the lid and the freezer, I bent to peer into the icy interior.

And that’s when he decided to jump.

Broadside.

Into my face.

I was choking on a sudden mouthful of pale yellow fur, so I would have to admit my hearing might have been compromised. But…

I know I heard pure evil in that cat’s laugh.

My Poor Baby

The other day, Elder wandered into the kitchen, his entire body on huge slump. “I didn’t have a good practice,” he murmured. “I don’t know what was wrong. I just couldn’t play. Then I fell on my hip. That’s the quickest bruise I think I’ve ever gottem.”

So I made sympathetic noises and resisted the urge to slobber all over my poor baby, like I used to could before he grew taller than me.

Then we went to his game the next night where I watched him get tangled up with another player and hit the gym floor. He popped back up on his feet, running to the other side of the court while rubbing the sore hip with one hand.

The next time he landed on the bench, I studied him from only two bleachers up. I considered sliding down the two feet separating us and inquiring about his hip. But I resisted the motherly urge with great and admirable determination.

Do you think teenagers care about all those times we could have embarrassed them and didn’t? Do you think that they consider a balance in favor of less embarrassment is really the best to be expected.

Yeah, me neither.

Long Days

Yesterday, it was three o’clock before I finally landed at a restaurant for lunch, which indicates the kind of day I had had. After ordering the soup and salad combination, I collapsed against the back of the booth, munching on the chips and salsa while Younger managed the conversation pretty much on his own.

And I guess that when the soup and salad arrived, I didn’t plow through it as quickly as expected. At least I didn’t fall asleep in it. But when the waitress offered to warm my soup for me, I allowed her to take my bowl.

Then waited.

I finished my salad. And Younger’s corn on the cob.

And waited.

Finally, I caught the waitress’s eye. “My soup,” I reminded her, earning a blank look that skimmed first me then our table. But she turned back into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of soup.

Then after I had taken two bites, she suddenly made an urgent dash back to my table, looking rather harried. “I just started thinking––I realized-––I couldn’t remember if I’d brought you your soup,” she murmured. Both of us looked at the bowl centered before me, a bowl she had delivered less than sixty seconds earlier. “But I guess I did?”

“You did,” I assured her, keeping my face straight.

Still clearly confused, she nodded then wandered away.

I guess I wasn’t the only one having a long day. I’m pretty sure I didn’t misplace anyone’s lunch, mostly because I didn’t have to deliver any, and I managed to reach home with both the boys in tow, mostly because they’re old enough to keep up now. But that was about all I could actually attest to.

Some days, the only goal is survival.

We can always storm the castle tomorrow.