It doesn’t happen often anymore. In fact, now that the kids are all in school, I pretty much keep it together. However, spring break (SB) changes things. We aren’t one of those families who zip off to Disneyland or Hawaii. We don’t even go camping. We tell the kids it’s nice to just hang out and relax. You’d think I’d learn, but those words always come back and bite me.
Since I’m feeding not only my own crew but all their friends whose parents said, “Why go anywhere when we can spend time with friends,” my SB grocery bill rivals that of summer camp. “Hang out and relax” gets translated into sleep until noon, expect to be entertained, skip chores, enjoy a 24/7 cinematic experience of video games and DVD’s and wait until the Sunday evening before school starts to do homework, term papers and announce the need for 24 store-bought cupcakes for a teacher appreciation party the next day.
Every few days a mom will call and ask, “Is Scott/Josh/Olivia there?” I ask how the 2nd honeymoon/couples’ retreat/sick grandma is going (depending on the story I was given by Scott/Josh/Olivia). Mom always responds with a little giggle about her clever child and something like, “Oh, well since you have so many anyway, what’s one more?” If you have to ask, you learned about birth control long before I.
Mid-week SB this year I needed to escape. Grabbing a snack and the magazine I bought three weeks ago thinking I’d catch up on my study of Hollywood’s rich and famous, I shut my bedroom door and reclined on my bed. A closed door means nothing to my children. “Mom, the dog got out again.” “Mom, can I have some of the chips at the back of the top shelf?” Mom, there’s nothing to eat.” “Mom, can I have $5?” “Mom, can we play dodge ball on the roof?”
In desperation I crept to the one room guaranteed to be deserted until the night before school started again – the laundry room. Huddled between the water heater and the washing machine, with two laundry baskets stacked in front of me, enough light filtered in that I could just make out the words of my magazine. I was calm, relaxed and enjoying my chocolate-chip induced sugar high. It wasn’t hard to ignore the calls of “Mom?” and when they became deafening I just turned on the dryer.
I don’t know what gave me away. Maybe it was the crackle of the bag as I dug for more chips, or the salsa trail I left in my rush. I don’t know. But the same kid who can’t find his shoes when they’ve been in the kitchen sink for a week or his swimsuit when he’s wearing it, tracked me down. “Mom,” he said, “we’re out of ice cream and Scott/Josh/Olivia says he is going home if we don’t get some more.”
Since I’m feeding not only my own crew but all their friends whose parents said, “Why go anywhere when we can spend time with friends,” my SB grocery bill rivals that of summer camp. “Hang out and relax” gets translated into sleep until noon, expect to be entertained, skip chores, enjoy a 24/7 cinematic experience of video games and DVD’s and wait until the Sunday evening before school starts to do homework, term papers and announce the need for 24 store-bought cupcakes for a teacher appreciation party the next day.
Mid-week SB this year I needed to escape. Grabbing a snack and the magazine I bought three weeks ago thinking I’d catch up on my study of Hollywood’s rich and famous, I shut my bedroom door and reclined on my bed. A closed door means nothing to my children. “Mom, the dog got out again.” “Mom, can I have some of the chips at the back of the top shelf?” Mom, there’s nothing to eat.” “Mom, can I have $5?” “Mom, can we play dodge ball on the roof?”
In desperation I crept to the one room guaranteed to be deserted until the night before school started again – the laundry room. Huddled between the water heater and the washing machine, with two laundry baskets stacked in front of me, enough light filtered in that I could just make out the words of my magazine. I was calm, relaxed and enjoying my chocolate-chip induced sugar high. It wasn’t hard to ignore the calls of “Mom?” and when they became deafening I just turned on the dryer.
I don’t know what gave me away. Maybe it was the crackle of the bag as I dug for more chips, or the salsa trail I left in my rush. I don’t know. But the same kid who can’t find his shoes when they’ve been in the kitchen sink for a week or his swimsuit when he’s wearing it, tracked me down. “Mom,” he said, “we’re out of ice cream and Scott/Josh/Olivia says he is going home if we don’t get some more.”
Comments
Post a Comment