It was a night of fitful sleep.
I’m very uncomfortable. I have insect bites that I’m allergic to which have progressed to blisters! Needless to say, itchy blistery skin makes it hard to sleep. Sometime in the night my eight-year-old came in and told me that he had a really bad dream. He climbs into to bed and I try comforting him. This nightmare honestly isn’t surprising. It was likely a “mother-fulfilled prophecy” because last evening at the Halloween costume shop, I foolishly joked that he was probably going to have nightmares later. He was scared of the motion-activated things in the shop. I laughed. And so here we are…
One dog tries to get me up and I ignore him and I snooze as long as I can. Of course I’m feeling as though I had just now gotten to sleep. Eventually, when I cannot lay there a minute longer, I will myself out of the bed and get going for the morning with the usual routine.
I retain my mom of the year status by getting up my grouchy eight-year-old and making him get dressed, then giving him ice cream for breakfast. I do the morning routine begrudgingly. When I call him out for being grouchy, he ups the ante and is downright hateful. When we head out for the day, my husband is still asleep. I kiss him to wake him up, which startles him so he flounders in the bed. I make it just in time to hop in the car, drop off my kid at his school, and arrive to make a presentation at the school administration building. This is followed by other work errands. I arrive at the office eventually and help the boss with some meeting prep.
I leave for a dentist appointment. On the way out, I stop in the bathroom and when I push up my sleeves to wash my hands, I am surprised to see that I have something on my forearm that reminds me of a faded, vintage tattoo. Its shaped sort of like a chair. It takes a moment, but I realize that it’s an imprint of the arm tattoo that my son gave himself yesterday with a marker. We never managed to wash it off because last night was so harried. It was pick him up, eat, cajole him into doing homework and then a whirlwind family trip to two Halloween party stores (you know, the things that nightmares are, in this case, made of) to look for some costume items. This was followed up by Dairy Queen—so there was not a lot of time left when we got home last night. Quite honestly, I’ve been exhausted from being sick for a week so there was no baths or showers tonight either. And, in the middle of the night, thanks to the aforementioned nightmares, he had crawled into bed with us, and snuggled up to me, and his arm had pressed against my forearm sometime in the night, leaving the mark. So now, standing in the office bathroom, I realize that my child went to school today with marker all over him. I decide that despite my momentary mom-guilt, it’s a nice reminder of him during my day. So, in that mindset, decide not to wash my arm either.
I head to the dentist for a crown to be put on.
The dentist comes into the exam room and says “Okay, so what fire are we putting out today?” I remind him it’s not one this time—just a planned crown—as if he has seriously forgotten. I have a lot of dental problems and I have since I was a very small child. Forget being scared anymore…I have probably had about every type of dental work done. It also helps that I have the most charismatic dentist the world has ever seen.
They use a scanner instead of imprints this time (to make the crown) which is much more time-consuming. This means a lot of staring at the ceiling and not thinking about how often I feel I need to swallow when I can’t (this is always the struggle). I stare up past the bright light and start thinking about how ugly most ceilings are and about how underused they are as a decorative surface and how utilitarian this one is and how it would be nice to have a screen or something to look at ….maybe a mural—something relaxing that you can mentally dive into and so my thoughts roll on and on down a rabbit hole. My train of thought about dentist ceilings leads to Michelangelo and the Sistine chapel ceiling and how he hated it and how he fell and broke his leg and he still continued to paint on the scaffolding the Sistine Chapel feeling and how the damn pope kept refusing to…and…and…and then they’re done with the crown.
I text my husband and my coworker to let them know that I’m done but I’m going to just go home for the few minutes in between lunch and dentist. The numbness is wearing off and I should be able to eat in a few minutes.
I let the dogs out and load the dishwasher. I soon discover that one of my dogs has figured out how to open the back screen door by using the very part of the door that’s made to protect the screen from dogs—the grille. He somehow cups his paws underneath and pulls it open and then runs inside before it slams shut. He lets himself in as well as our other dog. He is a master door knob turner, gate latch lifter and fence jumper so it was only a matter of time before he added this to his repertoire. This dog is something else…he is part Husky, part Lab, part velociraptor, part weasel.
The flea battle wages on and so every chance I get I am inspecting them for little black specs, which I do when they let themselves back in. I’m allergic to fleas and as I mentioned, part of my sickness for the last week has been horrible flea bites with blisters that have turned into peeling skin. It has been sheer misery.
My husband arrives home for lunch and we eat, then drop off his car at the shop for brakes and oil change, then head back to work.
I have two packages that arrived at work today. One was supposed to be a Marie Antoinette style wig (that is my costume for our annual Halloween party this year…panniers and all) but I think I had a little bit too much to drink when ordering from Amazon, and, now, peering into the package, I believe that I ordered the George Washington. On the surface that doesn’t sound like a big difference but let me tell you it definitely does not look like Marie but more like an English barrister. Since it’s here at the office, I consider putting it on and nonchalantly wearing it until someone notices. However, I need to send it back, so I do not open the plastic. Looks like we all lose thanks to my post-nightcap shopping.
I work until a little after 5 pm and head over to pick up my son.
When I arrive at after school care to pick up F, he shows me the survey he and friends have created. The options are: Popcorn, Pizza, or Pencils. It’s probably not hard to guess which column had no votes and which had two votes each–equal amounts of votes…from the same kids.
This survey is brought to us courtesy of Spike Crew. Spike Crew is what my son and his group of 8-9 year old friends at after school care call themselves. They spend the hours immediately after school creating comic books that feature themselves along with popular cartoon characters in all kinds of predicaments. Each boy’s stick figure counterpart can be identified by where the cowlick is located his respective cartoon hair. For example, F’s is right-side front spike, while another boy’s is right side, back spike and so on.
Not long after we get home, N stops by before roller derby to drop off F’s fake mustache. Somehow it had gotten stuck to the bottom of her handbag when she was over on Sunday. I should explain why my 8-year-old is sporting a mustache these days. He wears it as part of his Super Mario costume. He’s started this thing where he dresses as Mario or Luigi for his friend’s birthdays to surprise them. It’s really pretty fun and I will miss these years when he is still silly and thoughtful in this creative way. I told the husband that if nothing else works out for this kid, he can always find a career as a birthday party entertainer. After all, F has stated on several occasions he is never going to move out of our house. B is not supportive of either of these scenarios.
B is fixated on a rough day at work when he comes home. There’s not much consoling him, He works for government and it is an election year and this will be a long long month for him. I try to be supportive but sometimes its just really hard to know when commiserating or shoving rose colored glasses on him is best. He tends to go to the worst case scenarios when I tend to go the other route. Perhaps that’s why we strike a good balance most of the time.
We skip cub scouts—F just does not want to go, and let’s be honest I don’t either. Truth is he’s never been the same since the pinewood derby.
E from across the street has returned from a trip to Tulsa. We order pizza and eat macaroons. She tells B and I all about Tulsa’s Art Deco architecture and flourishing art scene. She tells us of the largess of the oil barons that built the city and about one building in particular. It was a deco building constructed with a rare marble. Years later, in the 1980s, it was purchased by a company that wished to expand the footprint, whilst maintaining its historicity. When they learned that the marble came from a quarry that had long since been closed, they paid to have the quarry reopened and used the same marble in the new construction.
When I see her out, I get reminded of the absolutely gross weather…..95 degrees in October.
Homework struggles begin. This year is much different than last. My son has been moved from regular to high ability classes. So, for all sakes and purposes, he has skipped 3rd grade and gone from 2nd grade material to 4th grade material. The adjustment is not just about the work—he is more than capable. It’s about going from not having to try at all to being challenged. He gets frustrated. He used to complete his work so fast at school that he drew all over his papers. We are filling the gap as we move forward. Math is the big change. What should take us about 5 minutes takes 20 because of my child’s obstinance. He wails about the homework.
Homework is worse when you are the parent—no one tells you once you completely finish school, that one day you will have to do it all over again only this time with a tiny, angry, uncooperative version of yourself. I’m the non-math parent, but I have been math-ing because my husband is busy and stressed. And that’s what marriage is about—divvying up the things neither of you want to do. Anyway, this is 4th grade math and I’m dying. I have to check my own answers.
After the Battle of Partial Products, I finally get to cleaning up the kitchen and preparing for the morning again, I think about how overwhelmed I am. I feel like being sick had put me behind but really, in all honestly, I feel like a hamster in a wheel daily. I usually don’t stop until its time for bed. I’m behind on commitments. Things that if I don’t do, no one else will take the initiative. I remember what the conversation at lunch was—me telling B it’s okay to let things go. To say “let someone else do it this time.” Even if they do it badly or not at all. We both need to learn to do this.
Bath time—I finally get the marker residue off of the two of us.
Fleas. I have been trying everything to rid the dogs of them. As I am treating them this evening, I ponder why I get bitten by them and my spouse does not—is my blood type more enticing to them? My husband is type O negative, so then I ponder alien blood and fleas. I have been treating the house with everything in the arsenal….Diatomaceous earth. Essential oil. Applying it like it’s some sort of pagan ritual. Like salting or sage-ing. Right now, before bed, I spray everything and everyone down—it’s like I just cast a level 3 warding spell on with peppermint oil.
Finally, we all settle down for bed.