Tired Bananas

Well, Fungus, god of podiatry has been partially appeased by two days of keeping my foot iced–I can walk again, and, in fact, went for a walk today, which felt wonderful. (Until I got back, that is, but we shall not speak of that.)

Of course, I got home soaked in sweat! Our temperature has like LEAPED…no, wait, it POLE-VAULTED…no, no, no, too mild a metaphor… it SPLANGED to the ceiling like a high-strung cat, and is now hovering there, in the 105s, claws dug into the blinding gold-blue sky, screaming sweat and oppression at us with every second.

No, no, no… that metaphor wasn’t it either.

Doesn’t matter. The heat sucks. I miss the high 70’s, but I’d settle for a week in the mid 80’s before we got stuck with the Nor-Cal Death Valley.

Anyway, after the usual–taking the short people to gymnastics, stopping at the LYS to show Babetta what I’d made (fingerless mitts–I shall upload the pictures someday, because they were beautiful, and I was proud) and dropping the aforementioned mitts off at their prospective owners–we came home and did Ladybug a solid: We unrolled the pool that has been in a box since last summer. We filled it with water and put the kids in it until they practically stewed! (The water didn’t stay cold for long.) Then we took them inside, got them a nap, and when they woke up we started the whole process over again.

They. Are. So. Tired.

It’s actually wonderful–you haven’t really been a parent until you’ve driven your offspring into exhaustion–go us!

Unfortunately, they are the only two offspring who are content. T feels that I am a slave driver because I don’t just ask him to clean the kitchen, I ask him to clean it MULTIPLE TIMES IN THE SAME WEEK. And then I whine about small things, like floors that stick to my feet and the fact that the table top hasn’t seen daylight in a month. Mostly, he seems to think that his siblings and I have arrived to cramp his style. How very 15 of him–I’m sort of relieved.

And poor Chicken–this one’s so sad.

She’s been looking forward to a trip to Great America (a theme park) for the last two months. She was all excited, she had told me a thousand times when she’d have to be dropped off and when she’d have to be picked up. It didn’t matter.

Two hours before she was supposed to get up on Friday, she blew chunks all over the bathroom. I cleaned up, she jumped in the shower, jumped out, and blew chunks AGAIN. We both cleaned up (again!) and she went back to bed for an hour, woke up, and said, by golly, she was still going. She got as far as the steps on the bus before she burst into tears and said she couldn’t do it. Called her dad (who had just walked in the door after dropping her off) and came home, where she slept all day. Since Ladybug had a similar incident the night before (which made that whole ‘staying home with my foot propped’ day feel a little more legit–I mean, I was in excruciating pain, but I still felt like a terrible fraud. If she hadn’t been sleeping on me all day, I would have felt like a total waste of oxygen, and I try to save that epithet for those kids with the .05 GPA and the total lack of civilization, a super ego, or a forebrain.) Anyway, back to my heartbroken 8th grader who made the (very wise) decision not to get on that lunging, heaving, rocking land-locked slow-motion-ocean liner of a vehicle, do you know what she told me? She told me, “Now I know how you felt when you didn’t get to see the Yarn Harlot.” Poor baby–I imagine that she felt even worse. For one thing, I got to spend a wonderful day with my family. She got to spend a day sleeping and fighting the dry-heaves while her equally sick little sister whined all over her.

I mean, seriously, I’ll take my trip to the zoo any day.