A day of happy things

A late start to my work day (7:45!) and the gift of cheesecake- for breakfast, of course.

This little guy in this adorable sweater. It was his dad's for goodness sake! I can't even stand the cuteness factor here.

This.

THIS! How did it even get to be this day before the day? Impossible.

My people.

Do you have any clue what kind of friendships get forged in my muddy mudroom? I sometimes get five years with the same woman bringing her child to my house. We do a lot of laughing and crying and friendship building in my porch. It's my favourite.

Speaking of friendship forged in my porch. Today I'm grateful for my friend who has offered to take my sweet Sam for a hotel night with tons of swimming so that I can worry about him a little less while we are away. Sam, swimming, with good people whom he loves. That's all good.

A work day with minimal crying, fighting, vexing, and pants pooping. Yes- pants got pooped, or more specifically, panties. But only once....

Our whole brood home for supper, plus a welcome surprise guest- my brother Al. He showed up to help me figure out whether I had turned off the correct things on my phone to avoid a nasty $6,000 MTS bill upon my return. We fed him tacos and scotch so that he would stick around for a while.

An early bedtime- because, good grief! It makes tomorrow come faster!

I know how annoying it is when people talk about their fancy pants, lazy, indulgent holidays. For the first 20 years of our marriage- TWENTY- we went nowhere, except through Lowe Farm on our way to yant zeed. So I feel your pain if you're in that place of life where the poopy pants are more of a 24 hour gig, and flying away on a jet plane is more than completely impossible.

But I'll manage my sorrow. I have packed five books, seven sundresses, three inappropriate swimsuits. I have filled the freezer with meat buns and pizzas, and there's plenty of rye bread and Nutella.

It's go time.

 

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All the things- Badly written

Hi there.  I used to blog here.  Write blog posts and process stuff and tap away at the keyboard like I could.  And then life got all lifey, like it does.

So here's the thing.  My son turned twelve in December and we still haven't done his birthday party.

I could say its because I spend so much time at the hospital sitting with my dad and that would make me sound like such a great person.  But its more true that I hate planning birthday parties, what with the necessary phone calls, and coordinations, and driving sweaty smelling boys to laser tag and buying chocolate bars and lamely calling them goody bags, and all that.

blech.

It's almost easier just feeling like a crappy guilty mother than to go through all that agony.

So, I'll just go with saying that I've been too busy being a lousy mom to find time to celebrate my kid's birthday.  My apology to all you excellent moms out there.

Also- we have all been spending a good chunk of our lives at le hospital.

When dad is having a good day, he asks me all the questions that make me want to drive a plastic knife through my eyeball.

He says-  your oldest daughter... I can't remember her name... is she in university?  What is she taking?  What are her life goals?

and I immediately start sighing.  Either audibly or in my brain.  I despise these questions.

Next he will move into the set of questions he has asked me for roughly 25 years now.  Did I ever attend university?  what did I take?  am I using my knowledge?

And no matter.  Here's what I hear.  (Yes, I will take full responsibility for my own brain.  I will take full responsibility for being insane and defensive and insecure and generally a horrible person.)

"Joyce.  You were a loser.  Did you take loser courses?  Courses that helped you become a not loser?  You're still a loser, right?  Because what did you take courses in?  ARTS??  and did you even finish?  no?  wow.  Just wow.  And so correct me if I'm wrong--  but am I right in understanding that now your daughter is also aimless, wasting precious time and money on courses that won't get her an Awesome Job?  Did I hear that right?  Huh.  Well.  So-- you took WHAT exactly?  and WHY?

wow.  What's it like to be you.  A time and money wasting partial arts degree holding type individual?"

(Hey.  I warned you.  This is in no way what my dad is actually saying.  He's a nice man.)

But it fully explains why I've been too busy to plan a birthday party.
Besides, I don't actually have a full degree, so I'm not exactly qualified.

When dad is having a bad day, he can't see that his wife of 64 years is his wife and not his mother.  He thinks he can walk.  He wants to go home.  And I am his sister.

Fortunately for me, his sister never attempted university.

I wonder-  if I had completed my degree, would tax season each and every spring make me break into a cold sweat, and chew holes through my cheeks?

Do I do my own taxes, you ask?  Noooooo.  I'm not a flipping accountant.  I'm simply talking about compiling numbers and papers.

Hate.

I started early this year-  Louis Riel day, in my pyjamas, likely sipping wine at 7:00 am, and sorting papers.  I couldn't believe how mature I was being- writing out all those receipts after doing all that mathy math and whatnot.  Well before people started clamouring and screaming and hurling threats.

But I didn't actually finish.  And so at the end of the day, and before the mania of the next day was about to begin, I stacked up all those papers and dumped them into a plastic bin, which I then "stored" on the dining room floor.

Until today.

Today-  well, I guess today I HAD IT.  (as in-  KID!  YOU'VE PUSHED ME TOO FAR, I'VE HAD IT!"  type of had it).  So I brought down the giant hammer on my schedule.  I said no to all the things-  no driving to any of the anythings, anywheres-  no way, no how.  Time to tackle THE BIN.

(turns out that I haven't paid the piano teacher, God bless her.  Found that bill.
Or called the school to set up an appointment for Sam to try out instruments for band next year.
I guess there was room in that bin for all sorts of papers....)

I've cobbled together a stack of papers.  That contain numbers.
Tomorrow I can mail them to the accountant.

And then guess what?  I'll really have to start feeling super guilty and bad and crushed by the fact that my sweet boy has not yet had a birthday party.

He doesn't care that I have part of an Arts degree.
Or if I've filed my 2014 taxes.

He just wants a flipping birthday party.

sigh.