Every Good Thing

So, this week, Younger had his first work holiday. But his response to having that holiday?

“Now I have two Mondays this week.”

Yeah, his glass isn’t just half empty.

It’s bone dry.

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Everything Is Good . . .

The other day, Younger forgot his wallet at his desk, which he did not realize until he was leaving for work the next day. Well, in his wallet is his ID, which is necessary to gain entry onto the installation and into the office in which he works. Fortunately, a very kind coworker met him at the gate with the wallet and ID.

So, being an occasional helicopter parent, I asked him to inform me when he made it to his office. And this is what I got:

Isaiah Text Message

Younger, my own personal comedian.

Which means everything is good.

Cept, you know, that Middle East thing.

Stop the Ride

Younger graduates next Thursday.

We finally received his graduation announcements Tuesday. So, I guess we have to decide if we will hand those out the day of the actual ceremony or save them for the party.

Missouri S & T expects Younger to prove he’s actually received his immunizations. But I can’t remember the name of the medical group we visited during his first year and apparently, only some physicians submit immunization records to the state database.

We received an email that Younger had to complete more forms and watch more videos for his summer job or his funding might be DELAYED. We have until tomorrow at noon. They sent the email yesterday. And he has finals this week.

I am grading essays from four college composition classes while preparing Blackboard for my summer classes. And I’m working a couple days a week at the local army installation.

Meanwhile, rain is in the forecast next Thursday. And, if it rains that Thursday night, we’ll get six tickets to somehow distribute between grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and friends. And three of the six tickets are for us — me, my husband, and Elder. I’m not good at math, but this does not appear to be adding up.

And I am realizing that I really can’t dig my heels into the ground and stop the world from spinning, so that next Thursday never comes.

Someone should have installed a set of brakes on this ride we call life.

This Is the Life

This summer, Younger will work a forty-hour-a-week job. So far he has asked:

“Do I have to talk to people?”

“Can I wear shorts?”

“But it’ll be hot, why would I want to wear jeans?” (He’ll be in an air-conditioned office.)

“I have to be there at what time? And for how long?”

This is the life he has been awaiting since kindergarten.

“College,” he corrects me when I remind him of that fact. “I’ve been waiting for college.”

Well.

Now, I have a few questions . . .

Wake Me Up

Since  Elder started kindergarten, I have always worked my schedule so that I was with the boys before and after school, except for the two years I worked part-time at the local army installation. But, now, for the next few months, I am again working part-time at the local army installation.

And, Monday, I had four hours of training and would leave with my husband long before the boys were awake for the day.

So, Sunday night, I told the boys, “I won’t be here when you wake up in the morning.”

“Okay, Mom,” they responded, their eyes never leaving their Smash tournament taking place on the television screen.

I finished some laundry then wandered back into the living room, halting behind the sofa. “Okay, well, good night, I guess.” I paused, folding my arms tight against my chest. “I won’t be here when you wake up in the morning.”

“Yeah, okay, Mom.” Neither one glanced in my direction, buttons clicking beneath their busy fingers as their Nintendo characters engaged in an apparently fierce battle. “Good night.”

I sighed. “Night. Love you.”

“Love you, Mom.”

And I retreated to my bedroom. “I worked hard to be here every morning their whole lives,” I told my husband, grumpily. “And they can’t even act sad about tomorrow.”

My husband offered that tolerant smile he has when he thinks I am being less than reasonable. “They’re eighteen and twenty-one,” he reminded me, gently.

“But I was supposed to get something out of it, too,” I wailed.

I guess he didn’t think that was any more reasonable, judging by his patting of my head.

Men.

They understand nothing.

Nothing.

And I am surrounded by them.

Tuesday Before Threesday

Today, I thought I would share an old story from 2000. Elder would have been four years old . . .

Several times on Tuesday, for one reason or another, I found myself explaining to Elder that it was Tuesday — as opposed to another day in the week, such as Sunday.  On Tuesday, Mommy worked and he went to the babysitter.

That night, while we were eating dinner, he told me, “Mom, tomorrow is Threesday and on Threesday, you don’t have to work.”

Well, he’s kind of right.

I’ve never worked a Threesday in my life.

The Old Days

The other day, Elder received his first paycheck in the mail.

“So, I just go to the bank and tell them . . . I have a check?”

I directed him to the items in the back of his unused checkbook.

He flipped through the rectangular sheets. “Why are there so many checks and so few deposit slips?”

Then when I pointed to the space to list the cash he wanted back, he said, “Why would I want cash back? I have a debit card.”

Every now and then . . .

I feel really old.