but then I'd have to kill you. Or maybe you would kill yourself. So I will save you the drama and sum up, in general terms, what will go down in the dim recesses of my cluttered memory as: The week from "What-was-I-thinking-ever-becoming-a-parent-?"
The week was peppered with the joys of a 12 year old having a Homeschool-Chernobyl (oh, you just wait, there's a post in there somewhere) and seasoned generously with the thrill of an insurance company calling me about my car being involved in a hit and run in San Diego. Yah, because I have time to buzz down to SoCal and commit a felony. Between Rocketry class and Anglo-Saxon Literature class, I just drove the 20 hour round trip for kicks. Then a few days later there was the real hit and run, - courtesy of a "blue Toyota" (thanks, witnesses, you really outdid yourselves on that one) - in the grocery store parking lot. A word to the wise, if you ever walk out of sliding glass doors and are followed to your car by a police officer, it won't end well. Officer Bradshaw was nice, and called me "Sweetie" and "Hun" and told me to have a better day. I wanted to hug her, because there were other things that happened this week, the kinds of things that parents of teenagers spend long, fret-filled hours talking about behind closed bedroom doors, but I only shrugged, "It's got to get better, right?". I surveyed the damage, and by the grace of the hit-and-run-gods it was over the top of the dent I put in the fender 7 years ago. Let's call it an embellishment and leave it at that.
Somewhere in between teenager-drama and bumper-rama, the plumbing backed up next door. This month I get to earn my keep as the property manager. More advice... don't put rice down the disposal, apparently it swells.
My Jonah baby hit a milestone this week that matters to none but those of us in Mormon-dom. He turned 18 months old and graduated from mama's lap to Nursery, that special place at church where goldfish crackers are consumed in Costco quantities and germs are shared freely. He hit the door running and never looked back. "Oh, WOW!" he said in his most blown-away voice at the sight of blocks and cars. "OH, WOWWWW!" He blurted again, tossing a car aside to grab the bright macaroni noodles for making necklaces. I faded from his line of site. I just couldn't compete with all the toddler bling. I lingered at the door and called a feeble and unappreciated goodbye.
"He'll be alright." one of the nursery leaders consoled.
"I know he will, but I won't." I whimpered to the closing door as it severed a little string from my heart to that fat, precious boy.
My arms felt so heavy with their emptiness as I
That settles it. Clearly, he can not grow up. I am putting my foot down. I simply will not allow it. Make a note.
So, you see, I'm all tuckered out. But I only have one day left to get my paintings ready for an art show I am trying to get in to. Little things, like Jonah spilling a pint of white gesso on the rug while the dog simultaneously vomits ten feet away, have created a few delays. Tomorrow I plan to paint - between tending the teen, helping the homeschooled heart, and scaling the mountain of laundry that was neglected last week in the hazmat that is my life.
Break out the yellow suits and gas masks, sweethearts. This is not a drill.