So really, all that I have to say tonight is that my LAST NIGHT didn’t pan out fantastically well.
Oh, my date with Hubs was great. And then everything spiraled downhill from there, on account of the small fact that I could not get my sleep on, even though I counted everything from sheep to vowels in the word onomatopoeia. Somewhere around 11:30, I think I finally conked out, and then listen. At 12:30, I woke up, and I thought it was morning. I suppose, relatively speaking, it WAS morning, but I thought that it was the kind of morning where a girl gets into the shower and lathers, rinses and repeats and plugs her hot rollers in. I was plum stumped to realize that it was ONLY midnight-ish, and then I was a bit overjoyed to realize that WELL, SWEET BERTHA’S GRANDMOTHER’S CHICKEN! I had plenty of time left to sleep.
And by plenty of time, I mean I got to keep up with all the sleeping until 2:30, at which time Thing 2 decided to toss and turn in his crib, which sounded like a pack of monkeys in the pots and pans drawer. Thing 2 never actually woke up, but he made enough racket with all the amplified-over-the-pricy-motion-sensing-monitor to wake up Lazarus.
And the last time I heard, he’s been dead a while.
And by a while, I mean the second while, seeing as how Lazarus wasn’t dead for very long on the first while.
Somewhere around 3:00 this morning, Thing 2 gave it a rest, and stayed still, and I sang a short chorus of hallelujahs before I crashed back asleep myself.
And then the boy was up at 4:00 this morning, digging through my bathroom for his inhaler, because he was wheezing.
We have never kept his inhaler in MY bathroom, which I reminded him of in the dead-dark of the night. He said, “Well, I was walking around the house with it a few days ago, and I think I stuffed it next to the bottles of bubble bath.”
Because that makes perfect sense. Why not just walk around the house with it and PUT IT IN YOUR BATHROOM CLOSET, WHERE IT BELONGS?
And then I woke up again at 5:15, and that was the end of my night.
Yes, there was a trip to Starbucks, because only their magic brew can take the ache off of a night like that one.
I’m pretty sure that it all got started last night, ’round about 5:00, when the boy presented me with his bi-weekly progress reports. The boy can pull off an A-grade without even trying, so these progress reports very rarely hold anything significant for me to look at. I just sign them with my signature (Because really? What else would I sign them with?), and the boy hands them back in to his teachers. But last night, the boy showed me six A-grades (three of which were actually of the A+ variety), and then he sheepishly handed me his composition progress report, and there it was.
The fattest D+ in the history of bad grades, staring me in the face.
I told the boy, “You’re going to have to excuse Mama, while I go over here and have a heart attack alone.”
Because do you know how you get a D+ in composition? Well, you DO YOUR HOMEWORK, and then you LEAVE IT IN YOUR LOCKER FOR TWO WEEKS. And then you repeat this about five times, so that you have FIVE missing assignments, and a spelling test that you never actually took when your parents yanked you out of school one Friday to take you to the biggest Lego store you’ve ever seen in Major Thriving Metropolis, because you can’t ever seem to remember to go in at lunch and TAKE THE TEST!
I may have had to breathe in and out of a paper sack last night; I can’t really remember. I’m pretty sure I just blacked out after looking at the 5th zero, where a grade should have been.
When politely questioned about, “Son? Sweetheart? Why do you have so many missing assignments?”, the boy quietly looked at me and said, “I can’t ever remember to get those ones turned in.”
Needless to say, there was a phone call to his composition teacher, who is the sweetest thing this side of the Mississippi River. A plan of action that would have made Indiana Jones weep with all the action-perfection was made, so that the boy could begin the arduous task of digging his grade out of the ditch. And then the boy stayed after school for an hour tonight.
When I picked him up, he came outside, grinning from ear to ear. He jumped into the Suburban and declared, “Well, that’s one D+ that was transformed into an A+!”
Thirty minutes later, his composition teacher called me to confirm it. Everything was accounted for; the spelling test was aced; we could quit requesting pamphlets from military schools.
And Hubs wonders why I need to spend a small fortune on anti-aging potions at the Estee Lauder counter.
So that’s a wrap tonight, people. I need to use this quiet time in which the Sons of Thunder are both asleep in bed and go balance our checkbook and pay our bills. And then I’ll probably have to ask Hubs to just go on ahead and move a little money from one of our off-shore accounts into our domestic account.
Starbucks is financially crippling us, but it doesn’t hold a flickering candle to what a good pot of WRINKLE-BE-GONE cream costs.
Happy Thursday night. Y’all have a great, safe, fun-filled weekend.