Ah, Monday. I love Mondays. Okay, sometimes I love Mondays. This particular Monday is not a horrible occurrence but not a relief either. It should be noted, I am tired.
The husband left town for work until tomorrow night and I didn’t get the grocery shopping done this weekend so I’m starting the week off behind on life. I did do 5 loads of laundry yesterday. Yes, 5, even with the front loader. I’m thinking the skiing thing is causing much more laundry than usual. Oh, almost forgot about basketball practice – hee, yes, one of the Shetland boys is playing basketball this year – and soccer practice and lacrosse practice all started last week. God, I’m tired just writing all that.
I think I got gypped. Not only did I not get any girls, all my boys run around and make music which in turn causes me to have to run them around to countless practices and attend games and concerts galore. Why do I not have a little girl I could buy cute stripped tights for who would sit quietly and read in a comfy chair in the corner? (Which is what I would rather be doing right now.) I understand you might find the request of a tight wearing girl odd but there is something you probably don’t know about my house…
Socks. They can be found in every single room in my home. No matter how many times I (or less often, the children – when ordered) pick them up and put them in the wash, they find their way into rooms such as the dining room, bathroom, playroom, kitchen. EVERY. SINGLE. ROOM. They only have 2 feet each. We have 11 rooms in our house. I may not be a math whiz but that just does not add up. 4 children x 2 feet = 8 socks. 11 rooms. Does not compute.
No, honestly, I’m not sad to not have a girl. I kid. I would much rather have my 4 loud, obsessed with bodily functions and sports children who beat the crap out of each other on a regular basis than a bunch of girls. I always did find it easier to get along with boys. Besides, boys are impressed with loud belches rather than repulsed. Also, I have the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy – still. The hardest part is not laughing at the inappropriate jokes.
In truth, inappropriate jokes might not really be the hardest part of raising the boys – that falls more to the trying to raise good men with all their limbs. Trying to keep them in one piece while simultaneously not killing them for ignoring me when I tell them to do something around the house because they are too busy playing video games – that is what is killing me.
I have no idea where this post went. This is what happens when you start a post, do some work, come back to work on the post, do more work. You get a jumbled mess that you have no time to fix because you have actual work to do that you avoided last week. May your day be less jumbled than this post. It can’t be too hard.