Showing posts with label summer hell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label summer hell. Show all posts
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Life's classroom
Sure, I felt a little guilty about sending my older child, E down that steep hill on his bike. I knew that scraped knees and elbows were probably waiting for him at the bottom. On the other hand, this child is my risk-averse, fearful, 9 year-old not confident on his two wheeler. My child who fears failure so much that most of the time he won’t even try. I gave him this push, metaphorical and literal, towards the boundaries of his comfort zone and beyond. I sent him down that hill to show him that failure is the worst that can happen.
As it turns out, always the overachiever, E, failed in fantastic style. In snow skiing, his fall would have been known as the ski chalet-various paraphernalia splayed around him like in a shop. I ran to the scene of blood and sweat and dirt and tears and anger and failure. I consoled, I assured, I praised him for taking the plunge. I convinced him to get back on, and while I couldn’t get him to try that steep hill again, we did finish the ride. Back home.
Summer, the season of bike riding and exploring, of collecting frogs and beetles, of jump rope and swimming races and stickball and secret picnics in secret forts is the true classroom of our childhood. As these glorious (though unreasonably hot) months draw to an end, kids and moms alike bemoan the return to the stifling air conditioned classroom, the drudgery of homework, uniforms, haircuts, and carpool. We’re saddened by the end of that freedom.
While we, as responsible parents, are supposed to allow our children to fail, to experience hardship and persevere, we are also concerned about grades, and notes home from teachers, and the school district‘s permanent record. Summer is the best classroom, because failure is allowed. It’s not graded or ridiculed or lectured over. The kids are at liberty to blow it--epically--and be consoled and reassured and convinced to go on. Summer is learning with our peers and parents rather than unfamiliar teachers and intimidating principals.
As I wrapped my arms around my nearly-as-tall as I am son, snotty nose, filthy hands and bloody knees I swallowed a chuckle--the wipeout was truly spectacular--and smiled. For even as he sobbed and sniffled, he had just experienced the best lesson of the whole year. And all it cost him was the skin of his knee.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Is it hot in here or is it me?
I'm hot. Not in the good, twenty-something-actress-of-the-moment-way, but oven hot. As in temperature.
I've been hot for over a week now, and it's only June.
Hot started in earnest the night before we left for vacation when I went upstairs to put the kids to bed. Since it's summer, we hadn't done the pre-bedtime ritual of bath and tooth brushing (cavities only happen during the school year, and besides, S only has baby teeth.)
Somewhere around the third-to-last step, it hit us. A wall of heat. Literally. Seriously, I do not exaggerate. Downstairs--pleasant 74. Upstairs--Hell.
92. That is not a civilized temperature for outside, much less my bedroom. Gross. I like sliding into cool sheets, not being suffocated by them. UNHOLY.
So, that last night before vacation, I waited until everyone else was tucked into their deathbeds, then I slunk downstairs into the guest bed. Sleep, thy name is coolness.
Departure day, and the upstairs temp had downgraded from Hell, Level 7 to Hell, Level 5. Only 83 upstairs. We trundled out to the car, and left everything in our bedrooms to roast.
On the plane(s) to Phoenix, we froze to death. The pilots up in their triple locked, windshielded cockpit had no idea that all of the passengers had turned into ice blocks. Maybe the flight attendants control the thermostat and think we'll be more complacent if they threaten us with climate agony. Once out of the tin ice box, though, we claimed our bags and stepped out into the early morning 90s of Phoenix.
But it's a dry heat.
Phoenix, presumably named for the mythical bird emerging from the desolation of the Sonora, is really a misnomer. The city should be named for raisins or prunes. One step into the sun, and you can feel yourself begin to evaporate. Imperceptibly, at first, but then, surely, your feet begin to adhere to the slightly softened asphalt while the rest of you is slowly inducted into the atmosphere. Your skin, never dampened by persperation, fails to cool. It's as though your face is doing that thing from Indiana Jones when the Nazis watched the Ark open. Eyeballs, parched, melting from your skull. And it's only June.
My sister, because she and her husband are a) economical and b) environmentally conscious and c) inured to the searing temps of the desert, have their thermostat set to 80 inside. While 80 is no great comfort, it is still TWENTY full degrees cooler in their house than outside it. Holy hell, Batman.
At night, though, even when I snuck out and turned the thermostat down to 78, it was still hot. I've been told that I radiate heat like a biscuit at night anyway, and in a guest bedroom, wearing pjs (can't go nude in some one else's house) in a queen sized bed (I'm used to the spacious, don't have to touch each other Tempurpedic King) with flannel sheets (is my sister sadistic?) we were like little sausages on a grill.
In Arizona, like in Alabama, businesses seem to think a cool interior will lure customers in. But, they OVERcool, so that an hour in a restaurant is decidedly uncomfortable at 65 degrees. Which, in my opinion, freaks out the body's internal calibration and makes the heat worse. Also, nothing makes you feel quite so stupid as carrying a sweatshirt around in 100+ temps, on the off chance that a lunch break is going to plunge you into Arctic cold.
So, like every other Phoenician, we dashed from our car (bun burning leather seats!) to the indoors (icehouse!) to the pool (comfort!) and back again. After a week of that, we hopped BACK onto freezing tin cans, flew back home to the swelter of Mobile in June.
Phoenix vs Mobile, is like the dry sauna and the steam room--you have to pick your pain. A week in Phoenix, my skin was all dry and flaky like the lizards who live there. Back in Mobile, it's like rehydrating a sun-dried tomato. I'm all water-retainy and puffy. But my skin is happy. It's a soggy melt here. Rather than shriveled and sere, we are more gooey and wilty like a candy bar in the sun. Home, where the humidity levels numbers are alarming, we slept for 2 nights in the steam rooms. Even poor Clooney who could sleep through anything, was restless and panting. He eyed us with accusation: "I thought you humans had this climate control thing in hand. What is this crap? What am, some wild animal?" We tossed and turned, and slept poorly.
But, this morning, an angel came to the door wearing coveralls and an Alabama hat. His visage glowed from the warped heat waves radiating from the blacktop. (At his 9 AM arrival, the temp was 89 already!) He strode in with confidence, tinkered, adjusted something I don't know about, and promised that in a few hours, our upstairs would be a civilized 76. All I had to do was write the check.
And in this heat, there's no way that check could have the energy to bounce.
I've been hot for over a week now, and it's only June.
Hot started in earnest the night before we left for vacation when I went upstairs to put the kids to bed. Since it's summer, we hadn't done the pre-bedtime ritual of bath and tooth brushing (cavities only happen during the school year, and besides, S only has baby teeth.)
Somewhere around the third-to-last step, it hit us. A wall of heat. Literally. Seriously, I do not exaggerate. Downstairs--pleasant 74. Upstairs--Hell.
92. That is not a civilized temperature for outside, much less my bedroom. Gross. I like sliding into cool sheets, not being suffocated by them. UNHOLY.
So, that last night before vacation, I waited until everyone else was tucked into their deathbeds, then I slunk downstairs into the guest bed. Sleep, thy name is coolness.
Departure day, and the upstairs temp had downgraded from Hell, Level 7 to Hell, Level 5. Only 83 upstairs. We trundled out to the car, and left everything in our bedrooms to roast.
On the plane(s) to Phoenix, we froze to death. The pilots up in their triple locked, windshielded cockpit had no idea that all of the passengers had turned into ice blocks. Maybe the flight attendants control the thermostat and think we'll be more complacent if they threaten us with climate agony. Once out of the tin ice box, though, we claimed our bags and stepped out into the early morning 90s of Phoenix.
But it's a dry heat.
Phoenix, presumably named for the mythical bird emerging from the desolation of the Sonora, is really a misnomer. The city should be named for raisins or prunes. One step into the sun, and you can feel yourself begin to evaporate. Imperceptibly, at first, but then, surely, your feet begin to adhere to the slightly softened asphalt while the rest of you is slowly inducted into the atmosphere. Your skin, never dampened by persperation, fails to cool. It's as though your face is doing that thing from Indiana Jones when the Nazis watched the Ark open. Eyeballs, parched, melting from your skull. And it's only June.
My sister, because she and her husband are a) economical and b) environmentally conscious and c) inured to the searing temps of the desert, have their thermostat set to 80 inside. While 80 is no great comfort, it is still TWENTY full degrees cooler in their house than outside it. Holy hell, Batman.
At night, though, even when I snuck out and turned the thermostat down to 78, it was still hot. I've been told that I radiate heat like a biscuit at night anyway, and in a guest bedroom, wearing pjs (can't go nude in some one else's house) in a queen sized bed (I'm used to the spacious, don't have to touch each other Tempurpedic King) with flannel sheets (is my sister sadistic?) we were like little sausages on a grill.
In Arizona, like in Alabama, businesses seem to think a cool interior will lure customers in. But, they OVERcool, so that an hour in a restaurant is decidedly uncomfortable at 65 degrees. Which, in my opinion, freaks out the body's internal calibration and makes the heat worse. Also, nothing makes you feel quite so stupid as carrying a sweatshirt around in 100+ temps, on the off chance that a lunch break is going to plunge you into Arctic cold.
So, like every other Phoenician, we dashed from our car (bun burning leather seats!) to the indoors (icehouse!) to the pool (comfort!) and back again. After a week of that, we hopped BACK onto freezing tin cans, flew back home to the swelter of Mobile in June.
Phoenix vs Mobile, is like the dry sauna and the steam room--you have to pick your pain. A week in Phoenix, my skin was all dry and flaky like the lizards who live there. Back in Mobile, it's like rehydrating a sun-dried tomato. I'm all water-retainy and puffy. But my skin is happy. It's a soggy melt here. Rather than shriveled and sere, we are more gooey and wilty like a candy bar in the sun. Home, where the humidity levels numbers are alarming, we slept for 2 nights in the steam rooms. Even poor Clooney who could sleep through anything, was restless and panting. He eyed us with accusation: "I thought you humans had this climate control thing in hand. What is this crap? What am, some wild animal?" We tossed and turned, and slept poorly.
But, this morning, an angel came to the door wearing coveralls and an Alabama hat. His visage glowed from the warped heat waves radiating from the blacktop. (At his 9 AM arrival, the temp was 89 already!) He strode in with confidence, tinkered, adjusted something I don't know about, and promised that in a few hours, our upstairs would be a civilized 76. All I had to do was write the check.
And in this heat, there's no way that check could have the energy to bounce.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
20 thoughts while procrastinating over packing
My lovely family of four leaves tomorrow for Arizona, where we will stay at my (childless) sister's & brother's in law house. My parents will also be meeting us there. This morning, I wrote an email to my sister while the laundry started and my coffee cooled:
1. I have a rash on my thighs and butt. I don't know what is causing it. But it is raised and red, and painful and looks b-a-d.
2. I hate packing.
3. I hate getting the house ready to go on vacation.
4. It's effing hot out.
5. It's so hot here, and so humid, that yesterday you and I were forecast to have the same high temperature: 99. Our dewpoint was 71. Yours was 28. That's ridiculous.
6. Ran errands yesterday. It's hard to run errands with kids, even harder to do with husband. Can't just pick up what I like--have to make a reason for it. And is there EVER a reason why I need ANOTHER pair of black sandals?
7. Decided (I think) to check our bags.
8. TV turns kids into zombies
9. S is heart crushingly cute.
10. My dog has allergies
11. Perhaps my dog is giving me an ass rash?
12. Are you going to be able to pick us up from airport? Enough room? We can put M in your truck bed.
13. I bought M flip flops. He is protesting on the grounds that humans abandoned flip flops they minute they discovered shoes. He claims wearing flip flops represents an evolutionary step backwards.
14. I think I have PMS.
15. Which is great, because I'll be my monthly fattest while seeing all of you after desperately trying to lose weight. Just FYI--I usually gain 3 to 5 pounds during my period. Try to envision me 3 to 5 pounds thinner.
16. Nevermind. You'll be too distracted by the butt rash to notice my weight.
17. Will you come wake me up in the morning and run with me? I'm slow. It won't hurt your knees. You can walk beside me. And laugh.
18. No, working out is not the cause of the ass rash. I've experimented.
19. Do you think laundry reproduces sexually or asexually?
20. I sometimes don't like being the mom in charge of getting shit done. I wish some one else would run all the errands, pack all the clothes, make all the beds, do all the dishes, and I could just show up tomorrow at 4:30 AM.
*sigh* Back to work.
1. I have a rash on my thighs and butt. I don't know what is causing it. But it is raised and red, and painful and looks b-a-d.
2. I hate packing.
3. I hate getting the house ready to go on vacation.
4. It's effing hot out.
5. It's so hot here, and so humid, that yesterday you and I were forecast to have the same high temperature: 99. Our dewpoint was 71. Yours was 28. That's ridiculous.
6. Ran errands yesterday. It's hard to run errands with kids, even harder to do with husband. Can't just pick up what I like--have to make a reason for it. And is there EVER a reason why I need ANOTHER pair of black sandals?
7. Decided (I think) to check our bags.
8. TV turns kids into zombies
9. S is heart crushingly cute.
10. My dog has allergies
11. Perhaps my dog is giving me an ass rash?
12. Are you going to be able to pick us up from airport? Enough room? We can put M in your truck bed.
13. I bought M flip flops. He is protesting on the grounds that humans abandoned flip flops they minute they discovered shoes. He claims wearing flip flops represents an evolutionary step backwards.
14. I think I have PMS.
15. Which is great, because I'll be my monthly fattest while seeing all of you after desperately trying to lose weight. Just FYI--I usually gain 3 to 5 pounds during my period. Try to envision me 3 to 5 pounds thinner.
16. Nevermind. You'll be too distracted by the butt rash to notice my weight.
17. Will you come wake me up in the morning and run with me? I'm slow. It won't hurt your knees. You can walk beside me. And laugh.
18. No, working out is not the cause of the ass rash. I've experimented.
19. Do you think laundry reproduces sexually or asexually?
20. I sometimes don't like being the mom in charge of getting shit done. I wish some one else would run all the errands, pack all the clothes, make all the beds, do all the dishes, and I could just show up tomorrow at 4:30 AM.
*sigh* Back to work.
Monday, June 28, 2010
I'm here. Mostly.
I know the vacation is over. Two pieces of indisputable evidence:
1. I am in my own bed and room.
2. There is a Mt. Everest of laundry to do.
The harder question: was the vacation a success? Shall we define success?
Everyone made it home. Despite overwhelming temptation, I managed not to abandon my children at a rest stop in Florida. I resisted the urge to duct tape their snarky, argumentative, nasty little selves up to the luggage rack.
On the flip side, it will be a new decade before the kids ever see the Wii again. Dessert will be a distant memory. Computer? Off limits until they're old enough to drive. Punishment or vengeance? A little of both, I admit. Vacations with kids just aren't really vacations. And I was mad, Mad MAD that they were ruining mine.
The other thing, the thing I just couldn't reconcile, is the memory I have of my childhood vacations. My sister and I, and sometimes my grandparents, rode in the station wagon for HOURS.
This morning, I mapquested some of the trips we took:
Home to Zion Canyon (new roads have been built, by the way) 6:49
Home to Yellowstone National Park 15:30
Home to Lake Tahoe 7:51
Home to Crater Lake 12:22
I know, can you BELIEVE my parents took us all those places, and more? What were they thinking? The kicker is, that once we got to those places, we hiked, explored, picnicked, read every historic plaque, stopped at every informational booth, and ate anywhere. There was NO MacDonald's on our trip. Potty stops came when the car needed gas. DVD's were futuristic sci-fi. Once I was about 11 or 12, I had my own camera and a Walkman, which helped pass the time. I remember being hot and complaining on a hike from the bottom of the Grand Canyon. But EVERYONE complains while hiking from the bottom of the Grand Canyon.
I remember taking a picture next to a sign that said "Caution: do not proceed unless you have adequate supplies of food and water" AND THEN PROCEEDING.
In Yellowstone, my dad took us fishing, and I got stuck up to my ankles in mud and a fishing hook entangled in my hair and attacked by ferocious vampire mosquitoes. NO COMPLAINING ALLOWED.
In New Mexico (Arizona?), my parents found this crazy expensive, crazy fancy five star restaurant called the Tack Room. I still remember it. We were told to behave or die, and I remember trying so hard to be grown up and polite. Maybe we weren't, it's hard to visualize what we looked like from an adult perspective, but I will say it wasn't because we weren't trying.
What I don't remember is trying to gouge out my sister's eyes in the back seat. Or plopping down on the sidewalk and refusing to take another step. Or screaming at the top of my lungs in the car. Or constantly whining about being bored. Or being rude and disrespectful to my parents. Or refusing to sleep in the hotel room. Or visibly crying that the restaurant had nothing on the menu that any human could eat.
I mean, maybe I'm wrong and my memory is as full of self-righteousness now as it was when I was a kid. Maybe I was a constant brat who fought non-stop with my sister, threatening to go to the death (or at least to the pain.) Maybe my parents sat up there in the front seats of the car contemplating a sudden swerve into oncoming traffic to end the misery of the vacation. Maybe every summer, my parents shook their heads, and said "maybe this year, they'll behave." And every year they planned the trip with optimism and enthusiasm only to have their best intentions squelched by uncooperative children. Every year.
Maybe that's how it was. Or not.
But that is how it is for me. Every spring, I suggest to M that the kids are a year older, and that we can't put our travel goals on hold for the next 14 years of our lives, and that this year will be different. And we should plan a great vacation. And then every summer on that hard-won vacation, I not only have to referee the death match between the kids, but have to listen to M shouting over the din, "I TOLD YOU SO!"
But, now we're home. The kids are happy to retreat to their own rooms, their Legos, their books. They are happy-ish to have 'regular' food and their pool, and their routine, and their lives. They are fighting, of course, but I have the recourse to send them to their rooms to achieve a temporary cease fire. I could, theoretically, retreat to my own office and post to my own blog in peace and quiet, except that the field of battle has moved down to the space immediately behind my right ear. They have armed themselves with Chinese checkers cannonballs and playing card missiles. The war rages on. It is now a civil war on domestic territory. There will be no casualties in a quiet restaurant or a neighboring hotel room. I am hostage.
There's no place like home.
1. I am in my own bed and room.
2. There is a Mt. Everest of laundry to do.
The harder question: was the vacation a success? Shall we define success?
Everyone made it home. Despite overwhelming temptation, I managed not to abandon my children at a rest stop in Florida. I resisted the urge to duct tape their snarky, argumentative, nasty little selves up to the luggage rack.
On the flip side, it will be a new decade before the kids ever see the Wii again. Dessert will be a distant memory. Computer? Off limits until they're old enough to drive. Punishment or vengeance? A little of both, I admit. Vacations with kids just aren't really vacations. And I was mad, Mad MAD that they were ruining mine.
The other thing, the thing I just couldn't reconcile, is the memory I have of my childhood vacations. My sister and I, and sometimes my grandparents, rode in the station wagon for HOURS.
This morning, I mapquested some of the trips we took:
Home to Zion Canyon (new roads have been built, by the way) 6:49
Home to Yellowstone National Park 15:30
Home to Lake Tahoe 7:51
Home to Crater Lake 12:22
I know, can you BELIEVE my parents took us all those places, and more? What were they thinking? The kicker is, that once we got to those places, we hiked, explored, picnicked, read every historic plaque, stopped at every informational booth, and ate anywhere. There was NO MacDonald's on our trip. Potty stops came when the car needed gas. DVD's were futuristic sci-fi. Once I was about 11 or 12, I had my own camera and a Walkman, which helped pass the time. I remember being hot and complaining on a hike from the bottom of the Grand Canyon. But EVERYONE complains while hiking from the bottom of the Grand Canyon.
I remember taking a picture next to a sign that said "Caution: do not proceed unless you have adequate supplies of food and water" AND THEN PROCEEDING.
In Yellowstone, my dad took us fishing, and I got stuck up to my ankles in mud and a fishing hook entangled in my hair and attacked by ferocious vampire mosquitoes. NO COMPLAINING ALLOWED.
In New Mexico (Arizona?), my parents found this crazy expensive, crazy fancy five star restaurant called the Tack Room. I still remember it. We were told to behave or die, and I remember trying so hard to be grown up and polite. Maybe we weren't, it's hard to visualize what we looked like from an adult perspective, but I will say it wasn't because we weren't trying.
What I don't remember is trying to gouge out my sister's eyes in the back seat. Or plopping down on the sidewalk and refusing to take another step. Or screaming at the top of my lungs in the car. Or constantly whining about being bored. Or being rude and disrespectful to my parents. Or refusing to sleep in the hotel room. Or visibly crying that the restaurant had nothing on the menu that any human could eat.
I mean, maybe I'm wrong and my memory is as full of self-righteousness now as it was when I was a kid. Maybe I was a constant brat who fought non-stop with my sister, threatening to go to the death (or at least to the pain.) Maybe my parents sat up there in the front seats of the car contemplating a sudden swerve into oncoming traffic to end the misery of the vacation. Maybe every summer, my parents shook their heads, and said "maybe this year, they'll behave." And every year they planned the trip with optimism and enthusiasm only to have their best intentions squelched by uncooperative children. Every year.
Maybe that's how it was. Or not.
But that is how it is for me. Every spring, I suggest to M that the kids are a year older, and that we can't put our travel goals on hold for the next 14 years of our lives, and that this year will be different. And we should plan a great vacation. And then every summer on that hard-won vacation, I not only have to referee the death match between the kids, but have to listen to M shouting over the din, "I TOLD YOU SO!"
But, now we're home. The kids are happy to retreat to their own rooms, their Legos, their books. They are happy-ish to have 'regular' food and their pool, and their routine, and their lives. They are fighting, of course, but I have the recourse to send them to their rooms to achieve a temporary cease fire. I could, theoretically, retreat to my own office and post to my own blog in peace and quiet, except that the field of battle has moved down to the space immediately behind my right ear. They have armed themselves with Chinese checkers cannonballs and playing card missiles. The war rages on. It is now a civil war on domestic territory. There will be no casualties in a quiet restaurant or a neighboring hotel room. I am hostage.
There's no place like home.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
The accidental tourist
I suppose there are a number of ways to tell that your husband loves you. For some, love may take the form of unexpected flowers, or breakfast in bed. For others, its a romantic dinner out, or a vacation getaway, or just a great foot massage after a long day.
Love from my husband takes on forms of its own: sometimes, it's expressed more clearly than others.
For example, this spring, I was eager to plan summer family vacations. M wanted very little to do with the planning of those trips--you may think this unsupportive. But, I could plan nearly any trip I wanted--anywhere, anytime.
I put together a very cool itinerary that included a road trip to Savannah and Jekyll Island, Georgia. I researched hotels and activities and he helped me process and purchase and the trip was done!
And M loves me.
Months pass, and the eve of our vacation arrives. I pack for everyone. I plan the driving route. I download and peruse restaurant reviews. I make reservations for Clooney at Chez Chiennes. We are ready.
As a sign of solidarity, M doesn't freak when everyone is an hour later than the planned departure. I mean what are the odds that the kids would sleep in on the one day I was counting on them to be my alarm clock? We are in the car without incident. The dog is delivered. We hit the highway. Nothin' but a curling ribbon of road ahead.
And M loves me.
We only had to threaten to kill the kids twice on the trip. We had a peaceful lunch and stopped at a roadside peach stand. Everything's coming along.
And M loves me.
We get to Savannah. It's coming up on bedtime, and we are hoping to check in, drop off the junk, grab dinner and go to bed. (One of the great bonuses of sharing a room with kids on vacation, is that I get to go to bed at 8:30, whether I want to or not.)
M enters the lobby to check in. The kids and I begin to unload the car. A moment later, M comes out with a grim face: "You're going to have to put all that stuff back in the car." What the what?
"Our reservations start tomorrow. They have no rooms tonight."
I guess maybe I was a little too eager for the trip?
And M loves me?
M disappears into the lobby again. The kids start their ever-so-helpful snivelling over things they do not comprehend. "We're going to have to drive all the way back to Alabama?"
I'm sitting in the driver's seat--literally and figuratively. I brought this fate upon us, and drove us to our fate at 85 miles an hour for 8 hours on the wrong day.
Nerts!
M comes out with directions to a new hotel. He seems okay. We drive a short distance and pull up in front of the Westin Spa and Golf Club. I remember this resort from my searchings. One of the top 60 golf courses in the country.
We walk in to the fine lobby, we check in, we go up to the 10th floor, (do they put Febreeze in the air up here?) which has a lovely view of the golf course, and South Carolina beyond. Apparently, I have a voucher for the spa tomorrow. And the kids can use the pool.
Not a word. He's in good spirits. "This is just going to give us an extra day of fun!"
Nothing. No comment.
So, in short, I know my husband loves me when he has trekked through every two lane, back-ass town in Georgia for 8 hours, listened to the kids argue about which clone trooper is cooler (clones, people, consider the definition) bought an unexpected stay at a fancy resort, and STILL had enthusiasm for a cheeseburger and beer dinner.
This morning, the kids sorta slept in. They're downstairs getting breakfast.
I'm on my way to the spa. Best. Mistake. Ever.
Love from my husband takes on forms of its own: sometimes, it's expressed more clearly than others.
For example, this spring, I was eager to plan summer family vacations. M wanted very little to do with the planning of those trips--you may think this unsupportive. But, I could plan nearly any trip I wanted--anywhere, anytime.
I put together a very cool itinerary that included a road trip to Savannah and Jekyll Island, Georgia. I researched hotels and activities and he helped me process and purchase and the trip was done!
And M loves me.
Months pass, and the eve of our vacation arrives. I pack for everyone. I plan the driving route. I download and peruse restaurant reviews. I make reservations for Clooney at Chez Chiennes. We are ready.
As a sign of solidarity, M doesn't freak when everyone is an hour later than the planned departure. I mean what are the odds that the kids would sleep in on the one day I was counting on them to be my alarm clock? We are in the car without incident. The dog is delivered. We hit the highway. Nothin' but a curling ribbon of road ahead.
And M loves me.
We only had to threaten to kill the kids twice on the trip. We had a peaceful lunch and stopped at a roadside peach stand. Everything's coming along.
And M loves me.
We get to Savannah. It's coming up on bedtime, and we are hoping to check in, drop off the junk, grab dinner and go to bed. (One of the great bonuses of sharing a room with kids on vacation, is that I get to go to bed at 8:30, whether I want to or not.)
M enters the lobby to check in. The kids and I begin to unload the car. A moment later, M comes out with a grim face: "You're going to have to put all that stuff back in the car." What the what?
"Our reservations start tomorrow. They have no rooms tonight."
I guess maybe I was a little too eager for the trip?
And M loves me?
M disappears into the lobby again. The kids start their ever-so-helpful snivelling over things they do not comprehend. "We're going to have to drive all the way back to Alabama?"
I'm sitting in the driver's seat--literally and figuratively. I brought this fate upon us, and drove us to our fate at 85 miles an hour for 8 hours on the wrong day.
Nerts!
M comes out with directions to a new hotel. He seems okay. We drive a short distance and pull up in front of the Westin Spa and Golf Club. I remember this resort from my searchings. One of the top 60 golf courses in the country.
We walk in to the fine lobby, we check in, we go up to the 10th floor, (do they put Febreeze in the air up here?) which has a lovely view of the golf course, and South Carolina beyond. Apparently, I have a voucher for the spa tomorrow. And the kids can use the pool.
Not a word. He's in good spirits. "This is just going to give us an extra day of fun!"
Nothing. No comment.
So, in short, I know my husband loves me when he has trekked through every two lane, back-ass town in Georgia for 8 hours, listened to the kids argue about which clone trooper is cooler (clones, people, consider the definition) bought an unexpected stay at a fancy resort, and STILL had enthusiasm for a cheeseburger and beer dinner.
This morning, the kids sorta slept in. They're downstairs getting breakfast.
I'm on my way to the spa. Best. Mistake. Ever.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Dear Pool Man,
I realize you are probably reading this on your laptop with wireless Internet while sipping margaritas by your pool. Is the glare off the screen harsh? Perhaps you should check the messages on your cell. I think my husband has left several. Hundred. Thousand.
Is the pool water refreshing? It was 97 degrees here yesterday. Very hot. Humid, too, especially for June. I imagine that by July, the heat will be nearly unbearable. Did your kids enjoy the pool? Do they have cool inflatable toys? I saw these hammocks that you can attach to the foam noodles and sit comfortably in the water. I notice some of them even have cupholders! That would be terrific, wouldn't it? Sipping margaritas in the pool!? Wow.
Having a pool REALLY is a luxury in this climate. And, sure, the maintenance is kind of a pain. But, being a pool man, you can probably zip through those chemical tests really quickly. I bet your pool water is sparkling clear. Unless you have a pool man, which would be funny. Although, I suspect you have time to tend to your marine refuge.
Yesterday, a friend invited us to their swim club for the day. The boys spent hours in the water, diving, splashing, playing like little otters. They really enjoyed the refreshing, cool oasis. We had a snack and everything. The pool club is very nice, although packing all the stuff is kind of a pain. What would be easier is to have a big bin with towels and sunblock and goggles and swim toys right by the pool. But, you probably have that at your house. For your kids.
I, too, have a bin right by the pool. I also have an over-sized umbrella and lounge chairs. I bought an outdoor fan with a mister, because the heat is really harsh in the backyard. We don't have any shade back there. But, fortunately, we haven't had to endure the harsh sun on the back pool deck yet this summer.
BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE A MOTHER #&(!*& POOL.
Do you know why we don't have a MOTHER *&(&^% pool yet?
Because YOU haven't finished your MOTHER (&@#(&^ job.
In March, you came by our house and measured the pool liner for a replacement. You've stopped by unpredictably and intermittently since then. We had the pool all full for about 8 hours, but the liner you installed was torn. And all the expensive water ran out of the pool bottom. Now, we have about 8 inches of water in the deep end. Sadly, that is not even enough water to cool poor, hot Clooney. Even if the water weren't all cloudy and disgusting.
If at all possible, could you please leave your poolside chaise lounge, take your adult Ritalin and get your self to my backyard? I would so appreciate having a pool sometime this summer. I mean, having to go outside in the middle of the icy night to make sure the filter was running so that water wouldn't freeze and rupture the whole pipe system was one way to enjoy the pool this past winter. But, right now, I'm feeling that an EVEN BETTER way to enjoy the pool would be to sip margaritas while floating blissfully around. I'm sure that you feel the same way about YOUR pool.
So, in conclusion, dear Pool Man, I am asking that when you get a chance, if you could, maybe, possibly, consider coming over and fixing my pool so that we could fill it up and swim in it, I would TOTALLY appreciate that.
Sincerely,
Julie
I realize you are probably reading this on your laptop with wireless Internet while sipping margaritas by your pool. Is the glare off the screen harsh? Perhaps you should check the messages on your cell. I think my husband has left several. Hundred. Thousand.
Is the pool water refreshing? It was 97 degrees here yesterday. Very hot. Humid, too, especially for June. I imagine that by July, the heat will be nearly unbearable. Did your kids enjoy the pool? Do they have cool inflatable toys? I saw these hammocks that you can attach to the foam noodles and sit comfortably in the water. I notice some of them even have cupholders! That would be terrific, wouldn't it? Sipping margaritas in the pool!? Wow.
Having a pool REALLY is a luxury in this climate. And, sure, the maintenance is kind of a pain. But, being a pool man, you can probably zip through those chemical tests really quickly. I bet your pool water is sparkling clear. Unless you have a pool man, which would be funny. Although, I suspect you have time to tend to your marine refuge.
Yesterday, a friend invited us to their swim club for the day. The boys spent hours in the water, diving, splashing, playing like little otters. They really enjoyed the refreshing, cool oasis. We had a snack and everything. The pool club is very nice, although packing all the stuff is kind of a pain. What would be easier is to have a big bin with towels and sunblock and goggles and swim toys right by the pool. But, you probably have that at your house. For your kids.
I, too, have a bin right by the pool. I also have an over-sized umbrella and lounge chairs. I bought an outdoor fan with a mister, because the heat is really harsh in the backyard. We don't have any shade back there. But, fortunately, we haven't had to endure the harsh sun on the back pool deck yet this summer.
BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE A MOTHER #&(!*& POOL.
Do you know why we don't have a MOTHER *&(&^% pool yet?
Because YOU haven't finished your MOTHER (&@#(&^ job.
In March, you came by our house and measured the pool liner for a replacement. You've stopped by unpredictably and intermittently since then. We had the pool all full for about 8 hours, but the liner you installed was torn. And all the expensive water ran out of the pool bottom. Now, we have about 8 inches of water in the deep end. Sadly, that is not even enough water to cool poor, hot Clooney. Even if the water weren't all cloudy and disgusting.
If at all possible, could you please leave your poolside chaise lounge, take your adult Ritalin and get your self to my backyard? I would so appreciate having a pool sometime this summer. I mean, having to go outside in the middle of the icy night to make sure the filter was running so that water wouldn't freeze and rupture the whole pipe system was one way to enjoy the pool this past winter. But, right now, I'm feeling that an EVEN BETTER way to enjoy the pool would be to sip margaritas while floating blissfully around. I'm sure that you feel the same way about YOUR pool.
So, in conclusion, dear Pool Man, I am asking that when you get a chance, if you could, maybe, possibly, consider coming over and fixing my pool so that we could fill it up and swim in it, I would TOTALLY appreciate that.
Sincerely,
Julie
Sunday, May 30, 2010
This is the End.
I don't want to be too Chicken Little-ish about this--but the end is near.
This is how I know--it's 7:28 AM. I already want to kill my kids.
This is how it started:
S runs around with Clooney--the time is barely 6 AM. They are chasing each other around my bed, on to my bed, off of my bed, around the corner, up the stairs, down the stairs over and under the table downstairs. (Wonder why S always has stitches in his head?) Finally, at some point, I asked if they could not thump quite so hard on the floor.
Immediately after: the heaviest rope toy we have thumped down 14 stairs.
E comes in and asks me to cut a watermelon for him. I ask about the time. It's 6:35. Who, besides a starving child in Somalia, needs a fresh watermelon cut for him before 7 AM? Mind you, I bought special chocolate chip muffins for the kids so they could obtain their own butt-crack-of-dawn breakfast specials. They can have a nosh and then I'll make a healthier breakfast when I wake up. Or not. But fresh cut fruit waited until 7:17. At which point, I had to beg E to put down his book and eat his much desired watermelon.
He ate two cubes and went back to his book.
Sometime during the cutting of the watermelon, S screams like a girl. I run in, expecting profuse amounts of blood, and find only a cockroach (a large one, the size of a small hummingbird) twitching, gasping in the throes of death and under intense scrutiny from S. E, shrieking like a diva, has already left the room. S is contemplating the thick body, the 'very fragilest antennae' and the desperate, uneven spasm of the legs. E said he wouldn't leave his bed perch until the thing was gone. S said we shouldn't get rid of it that it was 'intgergesting.'
I smacked it and flushed it. End of cockroach.
In the interim, S has had a hugely high fever since Friday. We fought it all day Friday, and yesterday it flared up in the afternoon, as fevers often do. This morning, the poor thing is covered head to toe in a rash. He often gets these towards the end of a virus, but they itch him nonetheless. I sprayed some Benadryl on there and ohmygod, you have never heard such a sound. Apparently, the skin is raw or he's been scratching, or it's not the kind of rash you should spray Benadryl on. But he was hopping and whimpering and screaming, and writhing. (Kinda like the cockroach, actually) I'm blowing and shh-ing and blowing and shh-ing.
In the end, I gave him some liquid Benadryl. Which, I am sure, is only going to succeed in making me drowsy.
So, now it's 7:44 and they've fought about where they're going to play. And what they're going to play. And the dog is tuckered out from the chase of this morning. And now I'm up. And the day has begun.
But it's one of the last, I promise. The Apocalypse will not be ushered in by four horsemen. It will be brought, kicking and screaming, by my two boys trying to ride an 11 pound dog, wanting a ridiculously sweet snack.
This is how I know--it's 7:28 AM. I already want to kill my kids.
This is how it started:
S runs around with Clooney--the time is barely 6 AM. They are chasing each other around my bed, on to my bed, off of my bed, around the corner, up the stairs, down the stairs over and under the table downstairs. (Wonder why S always has stitches in his head?) Finally, at some point, I asked if they could not thump quite so hard on the floor.
Immediately after: the heaviest rope toy we have thumped down 14 stairs.
E comes in and asks me to cut a watermelon for him. I ask about the time. It's 6:35. Who, besides a starving child in Somalia, needs a fresh watermelon cut for him before 7 AM? Mind you, I bought special chocolate chip muffins for the kids so they could obtain their own butt-crack-of-dawn breakfast specials. They can have a nosh and then I'll make a healthier breakfast when I wake up. Or not. But fresh cut fruit waited until 7:17. At which point, I had to beg E to put down his book and eat his much desired watermelon.
He ate two cubes and went back to his book.
Sometime during the cutting of the watermelon, S screams like a girl. I run in, expecting profuse amounts of blood, and find only a cockroach (a large one, the size of a small hummingbird) twitching, gasping in the throes of death and under intense scrutiny from S. E, shrieking like a diva, has already left the room. S is contemplating the thick body, the 'very fragilest antennae' and the desperate, uneven spasm of the legs. E said he wouldn't leave his bed perch until the thing was gone. S said we shouldn't get rid of it that it was 'intgergesting.'
I smacked it and flushed it. End of cockroach.
In the interim, S has had a hugely high fever since Friday. We fought it all day Friday, and yesterday it flared up in the afternoon, as fevers often do. This morning, the poor thing is covered head to toe in a rash. He often gets these towards the end of a virus, but they itch him nonetheless. I sprayed some Benadryl on there and ohmygod, you have never heard such a sound. Apparently, the skin is raw or he's been scratching, or it's not the kind of rash you should spray Benadryl on. But he was hopping and whimpering and screaming, and writhing. (Kinda like the cockroach, actually) I'm blowing and shh-ing and blowing and shh-ing.
In the end, I gave him some liquid Benadryl. Which, I am sure, is only going to succeed in making me drowsy.
So, now it's 7:44 and they've fought about where they're going to play. And what they're going to play. And the dog is tuckered out from the chase of this morning. And now I'm up. And the day has begun.
But it's one of the last, I promise. The Apocalypse will not be ushered in by four horsemen. It will be brought, kicking and screaming, by my two boys trying to ride an 11 pound dog, wanting a ridiculously sweet snack.
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