If You Just Have Daughters At Your House, I’m Sorry. You’re Missing Out On FUN GAMES BOYS PLAY And HOLES BOYS DIG.

I have nothing that really goes together tonight, so instead of trying to use lead-in phrases and descriptive adjectives and fantastic transitions, I’m just going to shoot bullet points at y’all, in the form of NUMBERS.

I have already changed four rank diapers today, which is two more than usual, on a day-to-day basis, and the cat decided to sit on the edge of our bathtub, lean over, and unload her gut of all manner of hair wads and chewed cat food.  Our bathroom floor may never be the same.

(You’re welcome for that descriptive sentence.)

After all the poo and the hairballs, I am ready to call it a night.

1.  My sweet mama showed up at our house bright and early this morning, because listen:  She came bearing a new Keurig, because she’d heard through the grapevine that ours was no longer with us.  Which meant that coffee was no longer with us, unless we purposed in our hearts to use the espresso machine which Thing 2 found buried in a cupboard this week because I refuse to hold a garage sale on our property and get rid of it.  Naturally, this led me to want to say to my mother, “And, you know what else?  Well… the Suburban is about to give up the ghost, too, and I think the sofa in our family room might be broken, and I think the living room could breathe better if it had a gray rug and some navy, Chevron-striped throw pillows.”

(If a Keurig miracle was brought about this way, maybe we could get a 2013 Suburban with heated seats by the same route.)

This is my heritage from my mother.  She is the queen of random acts of kindnesses for others.  She sees a need… and she does what she can to fulfill it.  That girl is a genuine example for all of mankind.  I’m rather certain that Jesus claps His hands frequently over the things my mama does for others.

2.  After second grade PE class wraps up, I dismiss those kiddos straight out the front door of our school to the playground, because it’s recess time.  Ultimately, this means that the art teacher and I have fifteen uninterrupted minutes to sit together in the teacher’s lounge and chat over bottles of water, because, even though it’s a Catholic school, wine is frowned upon until after 3:00.

I had the kids lined up at the gym door one day this week, ready to hit the great out of doors, when I overheard this conversation.

Student 1:  “Hey, do you want to play Ball Smasher at recess with me?”

Student 2:  “Yes!  I am getting so much better at that game!”

Me (interrupting):  “What do you do in Ball Smasher?  How do you play it?”  (Note to self:  Sometimes we walk right into things, because we never saw them coming.)

Student 1:  “Well, we throw basketballs at each others… well… um… at our own balls, and we see who can last the longest without falling down in pain.”

The Y chromosome can always leave me speechless.

3.  Sometimes in PE, in lieu of running laps, I’ll have all the kids line up on one end of the gym.  Then, I say things like, “If you are wearing any orange clothing today, run to the far wall and come back,” or “If you wish you could be Iron Man, run to the opposite wall and come back.”  The kids love it.  They hop up and down like they’ve just ingested obscene amounts of cotton candy at a carnival, and BEG ME to just “Say THIS ONE!” or “Say THAT ONE!”  And do you know what I do?  I always make up my own stuff, so don’t get any bright ideas that if you want me to say, “Run to the wall if you like monster trucks,” that I’ll do it.

Because I won’t.

But yesterday I said to my first graders, “Run to the far wall if you like to dig holes with shovels!”  I knew the boys would all run; it’s because I am a Boy Mama, and I know the heart-glow that a man child can experience when he sees a shovel and a big field of dirt. I’ve seen the smile that spreads across their faces in such situations.

One little fellow, however, did not run.  While the others were running at break-your-neck kinds of speeds across the gym, he said to me, “What if you DO like digging holes with shovels, but your mom has told you she’ll poke your eyes out if you dig another hole EVER?  Should I run?”

(And hats off to this mom for using exactly the same discipline techniques that I like to employ.)

(What?  You didn’t eat your broccoli?  Get over here so I can rid you of your eyeballs!  You know the dinner rules.)

I said, “Why can’t you dig holes any more?”

(Oh, people.  That question was simply a formality; I pretty much knew what his answer was going to be.)

He said, “Because I dug a hole by our deck stairs.  I ruined our grass, I guess.  And then my mom walked down the stairs and stepped in the hole and sprained her ankle and spilled her beer.”

(Note to parents:  Your children will tell their teachers far more than you want them to.)

Also?  I was dead-on with the answer.  I KNEW it was a hole that simply went too far that had ended this boy’s digging career.  However, I never predicted the spilled beer piece of the story.  That was just frosting on the cake!

4.  I saw this snapshot on Pinterest today, and I laughed out loud.  Oh, yes.  I did.  I laughed all alone at my computer, while Thing 2 was napping, and then I emailed it to Hubs.  He called me a few minutes later and said, “THAT made me laugh!”

So I’m sharing it with y’all.

(And please note… I did not take this picture, and it’s someone else’s baby.  This cutie is no child of ours here at the Manor.  I’m probably breaking twenty-four kinds of copyright laws by posting it here at Jedi Mama, Incorporated, but I do want you to end on a good giggle this evening.)

(And I’m so glad we have a backspace key and red lines that flash under misspelled words, because I just typed GIFFLE instead of GIGGLE.  Thanks to technology, I fixed that for y’all.)

(You’re welcome.)

And that, people, is going to wrap things up around here, because I still have yet another load of laundry to fold.  Oh, I’m not kidding on that one.  The laundry piled up like the Duggar family and some of their distant relatives had all been here visiting for a week, and still… it went unwashed.  Until… you know… the inevitable happened, which was when the boy announced to me, “I am wearing the socks I wore yesterday, because my sock drawer is empty.”  And Hubs chased that comment up by saying, “I have on the boxers I keep set aside for the Apocalypse.”

Those statements were pretty much the catalyst that sent me to the laundry room downstairs… over and over… today.

I hate laundry.  Or rather, I don’t hate the actual washing and drying parts.  I hate the folding part.  Standing still, doing nothing but folding shirts and matching socks and wondering how on earth our bath towels have managed to get so tattered and frayed over the years, makes me realize that I was created for something more.

And that something more certainly wasn’t hole-digging or playing Ball Smasher at recess.

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