I’m not sure what day it is on the astrological calendar, I’ve been too busy to track the supply of eggs and milk in my fridge—let alone to track the stars in the firmament, but based on the craziness that has taking place around me I’d say we’re having a month of full moons.
It all started when Dad came over for a visit, which always ignites a flurry of excitement since my daughter hopes that he’ll play Barbies with her (that’s a negative unless you count him holding Ken and nodding his head while watching golf on T.V.), and my boys count on him for “In and Out Burgers” at all hours of the day and night. But we knew his visit had turned unusual when my husband wound up helping him build a better mouse trap for his sister’s dryer vent once he discovered a nasty infestation had moved in while she was staying at one of her other homes. It involved chicken wire and nail guns and, I’m sure, a whole lot of cussing. I never saw the finished product, but based on the hours of effort, I bet it was impressive. Then he decided to help me with the dishes—and I now have proof that my mom has always been in charge of dish cleaning. He started my automatic dishwasher with liquid dish soap. When the bubbles overtook the kitchen and two sheet-sized bath towels, he defended his actions claiming that the soap bottle read, “dishwashing soap” and is therefore safe for dishwashers. I guess the nuance was lost on him, but the funniest moment came after I had opened my dishwasher and was determining how to dissipate the mounds of bubbles that were stuffed into the machine. Dad said, “just run the rinse cycle.” Again, while I understand that bubble baths are generally the domain of women, I was just a little surprised that he had never thought about how bubbles are made—namely put in the soap and add water.
Normally cleaning my son’s room is a mundane job—not so this week. I was picking up papers and shoes, as I normally do, cursing under my breath at all those moms who actually know how to get their children to clean, when I found a folded note written in pink ink. I began unfolding it when my son walked into the room and discovered me holding it. Without any warning, he knocked me off my feet, piling driving me into his bed. “That’s private, Mom, you’re embarrassing me,” he said as he locked his legs around my waist and started fighting me for the paper. I shifted directly into worry-mode, wondering what horrible secret was written on that paper to make him act like a crazy person to keep me from reading it, and now I’m not about to let go. My husband finds us ten minutes later, sweaty and tied up in a pretzel with my hand high in the air holding the note. He walks in, plucks the note from my hands and starts to read it aloud while my son’s face turns beet red. As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about—just standard girl notes about how cute he is and how nice it was of him to share his lunch. But it still felt a little like the Twilight Zone since I wasn’t even aware that we’d crossed over from the “girls are weird” into the liking girls territory.
I’m hoping that some normalcy will return soon, although I’m not sure why I’m hoping for something I’ve never had before. Currently my daughter is sitting on my lap, shedding crocodile tears because I cut her hair too short. You see, I trimmed off half-an-inch of split ends recently, but it’s the end of her life because she wants to grow her hair as long as Rapunzel’s. I think I’m just going to let her cry because I don’t want to explain to her why growing out her hair isn’t going to make it magical whenever she sings—that’s a conversation I’m not mentally prepared for.
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