Posted by: rocketbride | July 20, 2012

pepper pepper pepper salt

Today I was rushing around as usual, trying to get Blake packed for a weekend at his dad’s. We had just finished a day at the Arb, followed by an ice-cream date with my parents, so he was pretty worn out. He was singing a camp song under his breath, not stopping when I spoke to him. I asked him to do the same thing two or three times. Singing. Nothing is getting done. He’s wandering around with an armload of clean folded clothes that I’ve picked out, and I have no idea if he knows where they’re supposed to go. At this moment, I lost it.

“STOP SINGING ‘FISH AND CHIPS AND VINEGAR’!!” I bellowed, smacking him in the butt for emphasis.

It took me about 15 seconds to realize that I had probably just uttered the most foolish statement in the history of parenting. I apologized. He forgave me. And the song was done for the moment.

I had a beautiful day off from bookshelves, but the arguments about placement continued during the ice-cream date so that was the end of my peaceful day. During the morning, Mason & I kept looking at each other as we washed dishes, played with the baby or just sat on the couches and read. Shouldn’t we be pounding nails into a frame? Moving heavy books? Snapping at each other over trivialities?

Monday. It all starts again on Monday.


I used my day to catch up on laundry (joy) and run at the Arb in the cool of the morning. My discipline was rewarded with a heron and a groundhog, a step up from last week’s sightings of two bunnies and a duck. I also worked out with my brother: we’re up to 4 suicides without a collapse and a 90-second plank. I’m not losing much weight, but then again I am eating a lot of cookies.

“I only ate one. You need to give me four more cookies.”
– Blake, when he found out that I ate five cookies while he was at practice last night.

Oh, Blake. The depth of my snacking deception would astound you. There are full bags of chips you’ve never seen, solo trips for ice cream while the other parent keeps guard at home, and candy bars eaten in the car on the way home from the grocery store. (That last one is Mason, not me.) All of this illicit eating is made possible by Blake’s early bedtime, a margin that is eroding in the long summer light as his bedtime drifts closer to mine. I might even have to give up treats and take my diet seriously.

But I probably won’t.


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