I am bone-dead tired.
I know you know how this feels, sisters. I think we might all be rowing the same boat down the same stream.
I had planned to write about a really deep thought I had on my walk the other day but my brain has gone on strike. I just can’t do it. That deep thought will have to wait.
Maybe that deep thought is stuck in the nether-regions of my mind because I’ve had conversations like this today:
1. Me to hairstylist: Natalie (yes, her name is Natalie, too), I think I got a mustache for my 40th birthday.
Hair Natalie: Let me take a look . . . Hmmm . . . Yes, you did.
Me Natalie: (Displaying look of horror)
Hair Natalie: Well, at least they’re blonde? (She’s not yet 30. I still love her, though.)
Thanks to Hair Natalie, I returned my mustache-gift. I have a feeling I’ll get it again in about two more months.
2. Me: Boys, get your bare bottoms off the couch! Go put some pants on, please! (I say this more often than I care to admit.)
Son: Why can’t we sit on the couch with bare bottoms?
Son: What are dingleberries?
And I’ll spare you because I like you. Suffice it to say, I had a NEVER-ENDING conversation about dingleberries with my two boys. To the point where I was forced to declare an end and refused to discuss it further. Sarah, disgusted, retreated to her room. Lucky.
3. But the biggest reason my head is throbbing?
This bad boy.
I’ve seen these big, inflatable balls with an opening for a child to hang in and be rolled around and always thought, “Hmm. Those look like fun. And I know two little boys who could burn-off LOADS of energy rolling around in there. So when I found one today at Aldi of all places, I thought, “What the heck?” and bought it.
But I forgot one minor detail: we have major air pump issues in our house. As in, we have three different air pumps and none of them ever seem to work on what I’m trying to blow-up at the moment (which sounds demented. I mean blow-up like an inflatable. Not a bomb. Just in case you’re wondering.)
To add insult to injury, each of those quilted sections has a separate air chamber.
Somehow, I rigged one of the pumps to work but only if I pinched the blasted plastic thingy so the flap would open and air could blow through. Since it didn’t really fit, it was a sloooow process.
It took an hour to get that great purchase inflated. And it was around dinnertime, which is always a lovely time of day around our house. And I had to pinch those suckers so hard my fingers were numb for about 15 minutes, which is no big deal since I was only trying to cook dinner (!).
Not to mention I vowed to NEVER again blow it up so we can’t deflate it and it takes up an entire floor of our house. It’s going in the backyard. For. Sure.
So the evening continued on with the usual conversations: burping etiquette, when it is and isn’t OK to pass gas at the dinner table, why we shouldn’t touch dead animals (after one of my sons found a dead mouse outside and put it in a cup), and the reasons why we don’t fling bath toys at one another’s privates.
After tucking my daughter into bed, I stopped in to give another round of kisses to the boys.
“Why is this bed wet?” I ask the youngest.
“Spitting contest” he answers.
Apparently, the older son spits from the top bunk down to the bottom bunk and then everyone laughs hysterically.
They think this is fun.
“No more spitting down on the bottom bunk,” I proclaim, reveling in yet another crazy statement emitted from my mouth in just one afternoon/evening.
Seriously. This is just one period of five hours in our house.
And all the while, my husband was attending his first Aikido class in several years. You know, the martial art where peace and love and being in touch with your soul are emphasized?
For the record, it’s not a complaint. There are many times when he gets the evening duty and I’m out re-centering peace in my own soul in my own way (usually with girlfriends and wine). But I had to laugh at the irony of it all this evening.
As I walked down the hall and chuckled at this game of motherhood we all play each day, I could think of only one word.