I completely forgot to blog last night.
I dropped my husband off at the airport yesterday morning. He’ll be out of town for a week. That means that I begin a series of complicate drop-offs and pick-ups. Four kids who have two jobs and three schools and various activities but no driver’s licenses require this of me.
After returning home from the airport, I began Superbowl preparations. We had three different dips (is there any better excuse to make artichoke dip than a Superbowl game?) and donuts and chili. The funny thing is that no one watched a second of the game other than my daughter and me. I slept through the second quarter and she abandoned me before halftime.
None of the boys care about football at all.
Truthfully, I don’t care much, either. (Shhh.)
But can we just talk about Lady Gaga? Wow! That was some amazing rendition of the National Anthem.
And can we talk about Beyonce’? Why doesn’t she have any pants? Maybe we can start a GoFund me account so she can buy some pants! (Were they all stolen?)
I have to go.
See you later, alligator.
I’m out of words for this week but instead offer this photo I took last year at the Oceanside Pier.
Have a nice weekend!
I slept so soundly last night. That will happen when you spend seven hours walking around Disneyland and then an hour driving home and then three hours working.
My day was rather uneventful. Work, shuttling one son to school and back. I hurried to Costco for a pre-dinner shopping trip and then rushed home to put things away and cook dinner.
Drove another son to work, ate dinner, napped. Picked up son (he drove home with his new driving permit) and then it was time to work again.
I didn’t read today or see the ocean. Boo!
I was really tired all day and I still am.
Now, time to clean up the kitchen before bed.
Today my 13-year old daughter had a half-day of school, so I picked her up and we drove up the freeway to Anaheim where we spent seven hours and took a million steps to be thrilled and chilled and entertained.
I just love that she finally loves the Tower of Terror, you know?
We have mastered the use of the Single-Rider line which, when coupled with the use of an occasional Fast Pass, on a February afternoon means basically no waiting in line at the Happiest Place on Earth.
And now, back to our regularly scheduled week!
- A phone call with upsetting news.
- The dog barking her fool head off at people across the street.
- Abruptly because you’re late for an important date.
- The sound of crashing, like a giant mirror shattering at midnight.
- The dog doing that pre-vomit gag noise.
- The dog scratching at the door.
- A work-related text message.
- A smoke detector screeching.
- The yelling of kids who are fighting over nothing that matters.
- A wrong number on the telephone.
I don’t love waking up in the morning anyway but opening my eyes to any of these scenarios is a real bummer.
This morning, I woke up to several of these.
It’s Groundhog Day. I hope tomorrow is not a repeat of today.
The wind blew with such fury last night that I wondered if I’d wake to find a tree crashed through my ceiling. My kids reported that hail woke them at 3 AM. Yet this morning the sky was perfectly blue and the sun was shining.
A new day.
On Mondays I usually have most of the day off from work (I work an hour in the morning, then my usual night shift at 9 PM). My husband and I generally have lunch together and then I might run an errand or two.
Today, however, he went to make a hospital visit and I had to take one of our sons to the doctor’s office for a medical procedure. I took a book and read for the hour I spent in the waiting room.
Then it was time to drop him off at home and–because I’d switched with the other mom–pick up the carpool kids from school.
I finished up the day with errands (to Target) and cooking dinner, reading and a nap.
Now you know why I haven’t written daily for the past few years. Sometimes daily life is a bore and I’m not thinking many interesting thoughts. (But I’m experimenting with daily writing, so some days are just like this.)
I have a long history of dream-bashing. My visionary husband christened me a Dream Basher during the early years of our marriage. I’m good at it.
If you have a dream, I can tell you a thousand different reasons it will fail. I can pinpoint a hundred flaws in your planning and a dozen reasons why there is no hope. I can ask ten questions about the specific execution of the dream until you realize that your dream might as well be executed. Off with its head.
My 13-year old daughter said, “Mom! Stop killing my dream! I’d rather have fake hope!”
That’s the difference between us. I don’t want false hope. I don’t want to coddle a dream that’s destined to die. “Dream-bashing” is nothing more than analyzing and dissecting and questioning. And that’s a good thing, I think.
But it’s come to my attention that when I think I’m being helpful, my questions and conversation can feel more like a sledgehammer. So I’m trying to reel it back.
I don’t want to be remembered as the critical mom who killed every dream.
So, fake hope it is.