September 2011 — Wednesday was a really bad day. It was a frustrating, exhausting day full of Whinese and overreactions. By 7 p.m., I was pretty much done with the kids. Done with listening to them whine. Done with answering questions that had no answers (why do I have to read?). Done with requests that were stated as demands. Done.
In spring of 2012, while living on a farm in Plant City, I took up subbing at the charter school my children were attending in Temple Terrace. I figured if I was going to be at the school all day, every day, I might as well get paid 62 cents an hour to be there. When the P.E. Coach got married and took a short honeymoon, I agreed to fill in for him and wrote down a few of my observations in a journal.
Almost anybody could tell you that I’m practically a doctor. It’s in the genes. No, I didn’t go to Harvard. And no, I didn’t go to “medical school.” And yes, I did make Cs in high school chemistry. But have you met my mother? I dare you to get a malady that she can’t diagnose. Get sick in some weird way (normal ways are fine too; all the easier for her, really.), save the $100 your insurance will charge you, and call my mom.
This week marks a milestone for us as a family. We officially made it to the youngest child’s 3rd birthday without another child in the hatcher. Considering how slow we were to get started, there is quite a tale to tell here. However, that’s for some other day. For today, I have cakes on my mind. If you’ve been following this blog from the beginning, you’ve endured 2 DAYS of cake piping references. And furthermore, you are aware that those references have nothing to do with me. Because I don’t do cakes. I don’t even buy and transport cakes without consternation and disproportionate destruction. The following entry takes place over the course of 3 days last May. Because the bedlam was consistent and unending, I wrote it all down as it occurred. It was bad.
Odd things happen to us in less-than-odd circumstances. It’s possible that I’m a magnet for these things. Or I suppose it’s also possible that I’m just twisting ordinary circumstances into a sensational lollipop-guild type of tale. Maybe this stuff really isn’t weird. You be the judge.
It was a cold Thursday afternoon, a week or so ago. There was no school the following day, because people in our county think we should have a weekday to get on down to the county fair. We had no intentions of getting down to that fair, but the fact that we had nowhere we had to be the next day made it feel like a Friday night that needed to be celebrated. We had survived the week. Some weeks this is a bigger deal than others. But when you add to the celebratory feel of the day a swirl of nippy February wind, you got yourselves a family party at the local Cracker Barrel. And that’s exactly where we went.