Good afternoon, lovelies.
It's a fine sort of Sunday afternoon.
The kind of day that conjures images of quiet contemplation over coffee cups,
or book reading and leisurely strolls,
or even, if you're feeling pessimistic,
laundry.
Not in this house. Not today. Why? Because, that is just simply NOT how we do it here (except yes...as it turns out I do have some laundry).
Went to bed last night blissfully ignorant of the chaos about to ensue. G's girlfriend and her family were to pick him up to take him back to college this morning (after a week of Spring Break). Jack had to be up at 5am for work. H wanted to sleep in for his last day of spring break. I drifted to sleep, secure in the knowledge that I had my guys and my girls (dogs) safe and snug under my roof.
And, then I awoke to a weird creaking followed by a booming THUMP.
Creak...creak...thump!
Creak...creak...THUMP!
Jack started twitching, which is a sure sign that he's right about to wake up. And, if THAT happens, then it means a running diatribe for days on end about how he hasn't had a proper nights sleep in decades.
So, I was flummoxed.
Face down the terror in the night alone?
Or, face days of Jack's torpidity induced mutterings about sleeplessness?
I calculated; there was a small chance that the terror was something not so terrible at all. However, were I to wake Jack--the diatribe was a sure thing. Blowing ever so gently on the dice of chance, I decided to face the night alone.
I quickly scanned the room for weapons. With visions of my body lifeless and bloody from having inadvertently injured my own damn self--I shook my head--and, rescanned the room for weapons that seemed safe enough for me to handle. I made a mental note of the bamboo staff in the corner of my room. Fancying myself a sort of super-human, home-defending, mama-ninja, my plan was to grab the bamboo rod, wield it like a deranged samurai while flinging open my door and shouting, Sons of Anarchy style:
"We got BUSINESS, emm effer?!?!"
And, yes, my plan was to say "emm effer"...because, think about it, people, what if it had been one of the children?
And, if you're thinking, 'but, wait, won't you, shouting, "We got BUSINESS, emm effer?" wake up Jack?'
The answer is most assuredly yes, but I hadn't thought of that.
A split second before sh*t was sure to get real--I distinctly heard my oldest (G) clear his throat right outside my door.
Bamboo relinquished, I opened the door to find G across the hall sorting laundry. This, of course, made me question the reality of the scene entirely.
Firstly, because, he's 19. A 19 year old boy's idea of sorting laundry is usually sniffing it and placing it into two piles: 1) Stinky. And, 2) Eh *shrugs* Smells o.k. to me!
(the first pile, is then, of course, set aside to spray with fabric refresher)
And, secondly, because I had done mounds and MOUNDS of laundry! I had begun it on Friday morning. Other than the fact that there was some in the washer to be dried and some in the dryer to be folded--I didn't think there was a stitch of laundry left to be done! I washed EVERYTHING. Even things I only ever occasionally wash (like blankets--that sort of thing--not underwear or pants, people!). But, there he was ripping open plastic grocery bags full of dirty clothes.
My good lord--what was he saving it in bags for?
Let's not think on it too deeply.
The fact was, he had laundry. And, like the responsible young man that he is, he was doing it. I even saw him put the soap in.
"What was that thumping?"
"What thumping?"
"The...oh never mind...what are you doing? Are you staying up late rather than getting up early? You have to be quiet! You'll wake your dad and he has to work tomorrow!"
"I'm staying up late. Don't worry, I only have two more loads to do. I'll be quiet."
Two more? (!!!)
And, off he headed for the stairs.
Creak...creak...thump.
Creak...creak...THUMP.
There it was. It was my son. On the stairs.
He has the feet of a man who's betrayed the Mafia.
I really should have been more forceful about the ballet thing (ie: Me: "it'll make you more graceful!" a 12 year old G: "Mother. No!"). But, I digress...
So, heart rate beginning to descend, I made my way back to bed. Of course, I wasn't able to go right back to sleep--for at least another hour--do you want to hear how I haven't had a good night sleep in decades?
No?
Suit yourself.
The next thing I know, people are at my front door. G's girlfriend and family are here to pick him up and we're ALL asleep (except Chris who has somehow already left for work). I frantically send H (youngest) upstairs to get G. Meanwhile, I usher the dogs into my bedroom because his girlfriend is allergic. Plus, Lilly (hound dog), once expressed her keen desire to straight up throw down with his girlfriend--she's just the slightest bit gangsta--Lilly, not the girlfriend (ie: Lilly: Grrr...you think you can come in THIS house? Take MY best-friend's boy? Oh no you DON'T! Gf: *screams in terror* I've spoken with Lilly about how completely inappropriate this was. She's remorseful. I can tell.)
I reach for my robe. My hand grasps air. And, that's when I remember I had decided it was due for a washing. Yoga pants? Folded, and sitting on top of the washing machine to be put away. Trench coat? Given up in the 90's. Bah!
I'm still frantically looking for some sort of clothing to throw on when G opens the door and says his good byes. Somehow, he was able to get everything packed and loaded into her car in 5 minutes flat. Boys!
So, finally, I come out of my room (after nearly falling when the dogs rush out and I trip on the damn bamboo rod), fish my robe out of the dryer, turn around, walk into the dining room and step squarely into a mess from the dogs (trust me, you don't even want to know). I begin hopping on one foot, immediately getting the mess all over my newly clean robe. So, on one foot, I take off the robe, toss it and am trying to take steady breaths as I feel a little nauseous at this point. And, for whatever reason, I'm saying over and over:
"Not ok! Not ok! NOT ok!!!"
H hops down the steps and yells at me from the stairs:
H: Hey, Mom! God has spoken!
Me: I'll say.
H *completely oblivious to anything being amiss at all--it's like seeing me, hopping on one foot in a nightie with my eyes watering is just an everyday sort of event*: Yep! I hooked up the old TV because Grant took the other one and the ONLY channel we get up there now is some sort of God channel. It's a sign! I'm sure of it!
Me *standing on one foot with eyes watering and still wearing my bleeping nightie*: That's nice, honey.
H: Yep! *hops happily back up the stairs*
So, my foot has been cleaned, disinfected, cleaned again, and disinfected once more. The robe is back in the washer, mess has been cleaned from the floor, and I'm fully clothed. After having watched the "God channel" for 45 minutes, H has decided God has said all he needs to say to him today.
As for me? All I can think of is my newly acquired PG version of the phrase 'cluster f***':
Fluster Cluck.
Ask me why anyone would possibly have occasion to use the phrase, cluster f***, so often that they would ever even NEED a PG version.
Go ahead.
I dare you.
