This isn’t really going to be a post tonight, because MY WORD. I have nothing to write about.
Except that I should tell you… we never set an alarm. (And, in the words of a teenager, I should add, “Like… ever.”) It’s because our forty-one pound alarm clock gets up between 5:00 and 5:15 every single morning, and GOODBYE, SLEEP. This morning, when Thing 2 hollered from his bedroom door as he threw it open, I jerked awake to realize that, instead of the usual pitch blackness in the room, there was light streaming through the curtains.
And then I looked at the clock and realized that it was 6:45!
Six o’clock… and forty-five entire, glorious minutes after that.
I felt like we were living the life of hamsters, sleeping so late in the daytime hours, and that it was time for an omelet off the brunch buffet.
But let me tell you this… your day goes so much better when you sleep straight through until 6:45, when you usually have killed forty rats by then, showered, unloaded the dishwasher and slapped everyone’s cold lunches together.
That was the day’s highlight.
After that, I went to school where my PE classes were all set to run the mile, and I was all set to sit in a chair and watch them run the mile, while I timed them with the stopwatch app on my phone.
And then I realized that I had left my phone at home, exactly like it was 1998 again, when no one really carried their cell phones with them when they left their vehicles. This wasn’t too much of an issue, because there are a couple of old-fashioned stop watches in the PE supply closet, which I managed to dig out, only to discover that the batteries were SOLID DEAD.
In both of them.
And that is why my PE lesson plans were absolutely shot from the hip today. It’s also why half of my classes rejoiced, that the God Who Loves Us had heard their prayers to PLEASE PERFORM A MIRACLE AND CANCEL THE MILE RUN, while the other half groaned and said, “I wore my Under Armour shorts today, so I could run faster than I can in jeans!”
I made apologies aplenty, and couldn’t even offer up dodgeball as a treat for having the mile run yanked out from beneath their feet, because we still have the enormous volleyball net set up in the gym for the upper school team.
Later this afternoon, when we were getting in the groove of, “Hey! Let’s vote on some fun game to play today, because the mile run is cancelled,” I noticed that one of my second-grade girls had on a T-shirt that said, in sparkly, silver letters, GLITTER MAKES ME HAPPY.
Do you know the things I hate worst in this life?
Cottage cheese. Books with bad endings. Having the doctor tell you that it’s “time to image that and take a look.” Glitter.
When the boy was four, I signed him up for an art class at the local rec center, because I’ve never been into doing crafty projects with my boys without needing a paper bag to breathe into, while someone pats my back and assures me that life will still turn out okay. It was in the middle of our second art class that the teacher brought out pots of glitter and jugs of Elmer’s glue, and the boy went nuts.
Nuts, I say.
And he accused me of deliberately keeping him from the wonderment of glitter for the first four years of his life.
That’s how we came to have forty pounds of the sparkly stuff on our living room floor. The boy dumped glitter by the barrels onto mountains of glue, and then we brought the art projects home.
Where they dropped glitter bits everywhere.
We sold that house eight years ago, and I’m fairly certain that there’s still sparkly bits of blue and red trapped on the hardwood floors over there for the current homeowners.
Our new house has never had glitter inside of it before, because GLITTER MAKES ME NEED TO SIT DOWN AND CRY. I just CAN!! NOT!! where glitter is concerned.
And that, y’all, was pretty much my day.
We slept in.
I forgot my phone.
We had no solid lesson plans in PE.
I hate glitter.
I’m sorry that y’all had to work your way through this post, because I’ve taken BORING to an entirely new level this evening.
At least you won’t need that Ambien at bedtime now.