The weatherman told us that it was supposed to be hot today (JUST HOT! WICKED HOT! HOT AS SIN!), and I believed him for two reasons.
1. His track record was good.
2. Calling the following day as HOT seemed to be a legitimate guess at the moment, really, as we’re in our first-week-back-to-school heat wave, which Small Town, USA always pulls off at this time of the year. The kids go back, and the thermometer plows upward.
The boy headed off to school in lightweight shorts and a thin Under Armour shirt, so that he’d at least look stylish while he was dripping sweat, and I picked a rather baggy T-shirt out of my closet for today, which was wide enough that I could simply shove the fan from my gym straight underneath of it. I had every intention of walking around, looking like a Transformer.
And I have no idea why I said that, because my knowledge on all things Transformers is equivalent to the balance in my checking account, which is zero. And to the amount of clean dishes in my kitchen cupboards, which is currently zero, too.
Because the house? Well, sometime around Monday afternoon, I lost control of it. The dishes on the kitchen counter are deep, and they’re caked with enough baked on food that they growl at me whenever I walk by them.
And by baked-on, I really mean microwaved-on, because what part of WICKED HOT did you not understand? It’s too hot to do any form of baking. Our dinner menus consist of anything that can be yanked out of the freezer and which will retain it’s temperature of MINUS FOUR DEGREES while we eat it.
So, you know. Ice cubes. Ice cream. Frozen steaks.
Today was supposed to be hot. And then we woke up, and it was cloudy. Goodness, but the dark clouds rolled in, and the thunder clapped, and RAIN! MY WORD! THE RAIN! And that’s when I realized that I was absolutely freezing, because the mercury in the thermometer had grabbed a jacket and jumped on down to sixty strong degrees.
And this is when I finally came to terms with the fact that Hubs MAY BE CORRECT when he says that I tend to be rather high maintenance. Apparently I griped full-on about the heat yesterday, and then I laid a barrage of complaints out about the Antarctica-type temperatures we had today, and then I vocally wanted to know what kind of temperature zone we lived in, that could take us from one extreme to the next in something less than eighteen hours.
So I put a sweatshirt on, and I felt a little guilt about the boy, who’d gone to school in all of his thinnest clothes.
And then! Well, then the weather decided to honor the weatherman, and it cleared up, and blam! ONE HUNDRED AND ONE DEGREES, people, with enough humidity to ruin even Dolly Parton’s greatest hair glory. Rest assured, when it’s 101 OUTSIDE, my gym is a balmy five hundred and twelve.
But we had no head-knocking injuries today. We had no black eyes. In fact, I hate to ruin a good thing by speaking of it out loud, but, people! WE HAD ABSOLUTELY ZERO TEARS TODAY IN MY GYM, which is saying something about Day Two + Kindergarten Involvement. In fact, when kindergarten PE was finished today, I told the kids that it was time to change their shoes and head outside to recess, and one little girl told me, “I don’t want to go back to that other lady; I like to be in here playing games a lot more than in that room with her. She made us write a lot today, and you didn’t.”
I do hate to brag, but really? Some teachers are ALWAYS going and ruining a good thing by dragging out the pencils and making kids WRITE! That’s why I teach gym class; an action-packed game of Mosquito Tag, where we whack people with pool noodles, is a heck of a lot more fun than writing letters and numbers.
(And because a couple of you asked me today how the little guy is who bashed his head on my gym floor yesterday, I’ll tell you. His goose egg is still huge. It’s blue and green today. And his eye is blackened heavily. AND THEN! After his mama had taken him to the doctor yesterday, just to check things out…and after she’d brought him back to school to collect his backpack, which he’d forgotten in the rush to see if he was sporting a solid concussion…he walked in front of a girl on the swings on our playground. Oh, the story was told that she was swinging right good and proper, and when he stepped in front of her, she sailed into him and kicked him squarely in his other eye and threw him four feet across the sand. I doubt he’ll EVER forget his first day of kindergarten. His mama assured me that everything checked out just fine at the doctor’s office yesterday — NO CONCUSSION! — and I suggested that we might just put him in a helmet for at least the first week of school.)
I know I’m rambling, and that I’m not even rambling about the GOOD STUFF, because honestly? The weather? And doctor visits? Well, MeMaw ought to just go take her Geritol and call it a night, before she starts telling y’all about Lawrence Welk.
And a one…and a two…
Anyway, the boy survived Day Two of the 5th grade, and he has pronounced it good.
And then we had pizza with Cousin K, because he is OFFICIALLY SIX YEARS OLD TODAY.
Happy Wednesday night, people.