I just dropped the big kids off at school for their second day. I have a picture to prove it.
I also took one yesterday after school because I forgot to take one before school. After all, we were two hours late.
Why?
Well, our neighbor let me know she saw trash all over our yard and added that it might be a bear. She told me to check my security cameras.
We don’t have cameras in that particular spot, and I don’t know the password to the cloud system.
I looked for evidence of scratch marks or bear prints.
Mystery remains unsolved. Case was cold by 8 a.m.
Our dog got neutered and needed to be picked up, and the kids begged to go with me. How could I say no to that?
Though I tell Robert all of the time I want to be pursued, chaos never fails to pursue me. But I meant him, not chaos.
I grabbed Starbucks, and my lid wasn’t all the way on, so I wore my overpriced coffee instead of drinking it.
I treated the kids to Starbucks. Matthew made sure to thank me with a punishment: hot chocolate and a white T-shirt.
What was I thinking?
But more importantly, I actually don’t understand his wardrobe choice anyway. We bought name-brand shirts at $30 a cloth, and he picked the white T-shirt that was $8 for a pack of five.
At least we all got the endorphin release we showed up for when we picked up Scout because, boy, was he glad to see us again.
At first he didn’t recognize us when the vet tech brought him out, but once he smelled us and recognized Abigail’s high-pitched “Babies!” he knew he was about to jailbreak out of there.
He started crying endlessly and jumping all around.
Then he got Abigail dirty, too.
The rescue had us take Scout to a vet in Clarksville. I wasn’t particularly excited about that part, but the kids and I did have fun listing all our dogs in ChatGPT and asking it who would win in a fight between them and a black bear.
The storytelling made us all laugh because it described our dogs so well.
I got Scout home, the kids changed, and then off to school they went.
The kids have one rule for their unpaid Mumber (Mom Uber) driver.
No Mom music over volume 2 under any circumstances in ANY parking lot associated with these sophisticated heathens. Like, Bone Thugs and Harmony, you don’t get a free pass on this rule.
So I turn down Pandora on my phone as we approach the premises of learning and drama, as I have been instructed.
“Come on, kids. Let’s hurry inside.”
I unplug my phone, and the phone and Expedition volume aren’t in sync, so Def Leppard through the middle school parking lot?
Yes.
Matthew jumping out, covering his head with a backpack, and walking away swiftly? Also yes.
I thought about telling the front office why we were late, but then I decided that would be more work and she probably doesn’t care.
I barely cared, if that’s okay to admit.
That afternoon, I planned a special dinner for the big kids.
Chicken Alfredo, garlic bread, salad, and an ice cream bar.
I got their favorite toppings and anticipated their arrival.
That turned into a complete shit show.
Abigail ate by herself because she can’t eat at the dinner table lately without fighting with her brothers about the sound of their smacking and gulping.
She even gets on to me.
Sometimes I catch myself holding my breath so she doesn’t give me a dirty look.
I told her if she had nothing to say about her day, she could get the ice cream bar ready.
Well, she discovered that Matthew put the two tubs of ice cream in the refrigerator.
Then he put my P3 lunches and the boys’ Lunchables in the freezer.
We were able to salvage the ice cream for the night, but the second tub would not survive being put back in the freezer.
I laid out all the groceries for Matthew, and we counted how much money we actually wasted by not paying attention.
Almost $50.
He looked upset.
I asked him why he looked upset. I specifically asked, “Do you feel bad?”
He said no.
He said he didn’t think he was the one who did it, even though he was the one who put the groceries away.
We explained that the groceries didn’t grow legs and make it to the extra fridge on their own.
He said he put them all away but not in those places.
This was frustrating because the groceries had only been at the house for a couple of hours.
He wouldn’t own it, which was the most important part to us, or apologize.
Then Robert said he wasn’t in the mood for ice cream,
So I didn’t have any either.
Jonah assured me that he had just discovered he likes melted ice cream.
Kaleb said he doesn’t like strawberry ice cream. It was Neapolitan, and I was about to scream. But then he said, “I am glad you got this kind because it’s good.”
I guess he didn’t realize it had a strawberry stripe in there, too. Kind of like how he hates onions, and I hope he doesn’t notice them in my chicken spaghetti.
So once the kids finished, we went to bed, and I wondered how all of this ended without me getting ice cream or learning about the kids’ day.
I woke up at 1:00 a.m. feeling sugar-short, so I had a handful of Oreo Thins and then went back to sleep feeling satisfied.
Not as good as a sundae, but better than not having dessert at all.
Robert talked to Matthew before bed.
When we woke up at 5 this morning, I could tell Robert was a good mix of agitated about Matthew’s thoughtlessness and melancholy about how the night ended, so I started “Just Give Me Jesus” on Alexa with a soft smile and a kiss.
Sometimes I want to scream for him to snap out of it, but sometimes you gotta let Jesus fight those battles for you.
I say that with a mischievous smile because I know him well enough to comfort him without trying to talk him out of a mood.
This morning was much better.
I put this prompt in ChatGPT, and it finally got the conversation that I was reaching for yesterday:
“Right now, I’m driving Matthew and Abigail to school. Matthew’s 13, and Abigail’s 11. We need something to listen to on the way to school. Give us some encouragement for the day, some laughter, and give them something to challenge themselves with for the day.”
Abigail’s eyes got really wide because she doesn’t realize that I gain some understanding about her through ChatGPT in other chats, so when it said, “Abigail, you’re 11, which means you’re entering the era where you can simultaneously be incredibly mature and become personally offended because somebody breathed weird near you. Also normal.”
Her mouth dropped. Her eyes opened wide.
She said, “Mom, is there history in this text or is this a new conversation? How does it know all of this about me?”
I let her stay puzzled because, as I said, I am mischievous, in an innocent way, of course.
Abigail told me she had done most of what the response said for today yesterday.
They had a new girl, and a teacher asked Abigail to make her feel welcome.
Abigail said, “Mom, she was so pretty, so I just looked at her and said, ‘You are so pretty.’”
I love that because I tell women they are beautiful and hot all the time.
Because I am a mom.
I know how it goes.
I am married, so I don’t want that from other men. I know my husband doesn’t always know when to say it, so we women have to remind each other that we still got it.
I am glad Abigail is not trading compliments to get one in return.
She sees someone she genuinely thinks is pretty, and she let her know.
That’s it.
That matters.
It might have changed that girl’s entire first day of school.
And I made it. I didn’t cuss at anyone through all of that.
But I cussed here, so I guess it had to come out somewhere.
