That Time When Cinderella’s Ball Turned Out To Be A Tractor Ride

Today is Tuesday, and do you know what?  It doesn’t even matter!  And… I’m only a little ashamed that I actually KNOW that it’s Tuesday, because we haven’t quite reached the point in our Summer Vacation where Mama has to stop to ask Siri what day it actually is.  We’re so excited about just flat-out LOSING TRACK OF our days of the week; it’s how Summer Vacation is supposed to be.

I think we still know our Mondays from our Tuesdays because the boy has a job, and we kind of tend to need to know which days of the week he has to be at the golf course by 7 AM and which days of the week he doesn’t need to arrive until 10 AM.  Basically, all I’m doing is taking his week-long schedules and punching them into my iPhone, so that it beeps and chimes and whistles at me whenever I need to make sure he is actually out of bed, upright, showered with his teeth brushed, and ready to go gather range balls, sell memberships, book tee times, wash golf carts, and grill the occasional hamburger.

Truthfully, the boy is LOVING his job.  He’s working every part of one golf course, literally from washing the golf carts to working the desk in the clubhouse and even slipping in behind the counter to slap frozen hamburger patties on the grill for hungry golfers who stop in between Holes 9 and 10.  Next week, he’s supposed to start working at the other golf course in town, helping with a little junior golf program.  He’ll be teaching tiny tots how to smack a ball clean off a tee, and he’s looking forward to that.  In other words, he has taken what he loves to do (golf) and turned it into a career.

Or a summer job.


At this point, it FEELS like a career, because he’s working all the time.  Then, when he’s not working, he’s calling me to say, “Don’t come get me yet; I’m going to pop out and golf a quick nine.”

That’s Golfer Speak for, “It’s gonna be another couple of hours before I need a ride, Ma.”  Golfers are not QUICK FOLKS, y’all.  Golf is a slow sport, that requires a lot of quiet ball study and thoughts on, “Which club should I use?” and “Which angle should I take?” and “Do I want a cheeseburger or a Polish sausage when I get back to the clubhouse?”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I tried to convince Thing 2 this morning that we should play Cinderella.  Specifically, we were going to play that part where she puts on an apron sewn by woodland creatures and then scrubs pots and pans and floors and chamber pots and picks up 1,400 toy John Deere tractors and one-point-six million Lego bricks.  I really had no intentions of getting to the part where Cinderella is visited by the Fairy Godmother, who waves her wand and creates glass slippers, because we had A TON of chores that needed to get done.  Time was not on our side for finishing all of them before the grand ball started, and glass slippers are not appropriate footwear when you own a four-year-old man child, who wants you to come outside and watch him ride his bike and then cart him off to the park to play.


Mam stole Thing 2 away, so that she could play with him today.  So, while the boy worked, I dedicated my TIME WITH NO CHILDREN to sweeping the house clean.  I’ve learned that my OCD can only take so many days in a row when we have to kick stuff aside on the floor when we pass through a room, before I snap and cry the Ugly Cry.

I’m looking at you, Lego Bricks.

And you, toy tractors.

And you, Matchbox cars.

And you, dirty laundry.

And also at you, golf tees.  Oh, sweet mercy!  Golf tees everywhere, from the inside of my washing machine to my bathroom linen closet and floors.  I’m so weary-exhausted-tired of stepping on golf tees with bare feet!!

In other words, we have been living like slobs, people.  But, no more.  We have dug our way out of filth and risen to a level where the Department of Family Services will have no bone to pick with us about the state of our living conditions, in regards to CHILDREN IN THE HOME.  I feel like we are now at the top of our Summer Game Plan (the SGP).


And being at the top of our SGP means that we can leave the freshly-mopped floors behind and do the fun stuff.

Even though there were no fancy balls, breakable shoes or birds that can run a Singer sewing machine, there was time to ride the REAL tractor this week.  Thing 2 and the boys’ adorable cousin, Miss A, had a blast driving around.  Miss A is pretty much our preschooler’s best friend right now, because she took her hands OFF the steering wheel and let him drive… BY…  HIMSELF.

Yes.  He has bragged nonstop about driving that tractor HIMSELF.  Miss A handed him a gift by letting him do the steering, all alone.  She’s beautifully sweet like that.

Thing 2 LOVES the tractors.

And by LOVES… I mean he LOVES LOVES LOVES LOVES them, times infinity.

IMG_6474 IMG_6476 IMG_6478 IMG_6479 IMG_6480And… FINALLY!  He found an activity where his cowboy boots and hat turned into the appropriate dress code!

Happy Tuesday, people.


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