It's May. It's finally warm. It's baseball season.
My life is so out of control right now that I don't know whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt.
A typical day consists of getting up and going to work. Easiest part of my day. Because when that bell rings at 2:45 it's worse than the alarm going off in the morning. Time to start my for real day.
The hundreds of students I see on the daily are no match for the four I have at home. Once I leave work, it's go time. Especially in May. Especially during baseball season.
Most nights there are three different games. At three different parks. All at the same time. And don't forget therapies and tutoring.
But now that the weather's nice, I don't mind sitting out there watching them play. I don't mind driving all over the place to get everyone where they need to be. I look at it as a night on the town. The real hell begins when we walk back through those doors at 8:30 pm.
We still have to make/order/scavenge dinner. And everyone is a filthy mess. Everyone needs a shower.
This is when I start treating them like the animals that they are. Get over here, you. Just stand in the tub and I'll hose you down. One at a time, now. Don't make this weirder than it already is. You, in the middle, bend over. There you go, that's it.
Finally, everyone is showered. The ring of dirt left in the tub is disturbing. But we'll worry about that later. (Never).
Now time to shove some food down your throat and get in bed. Mom, what's for dinner? Nothing, nothing is for dinner. We haven't been home in weeks. Open the fridge, put something in your mouth and swallow it. Then get your ass to bed.
Wait, but mom, what about our homework?
Holy sh!t. Homework. The H word. The freaking May/Baseball season homework. For the love of God.
It is now 9:30pm. On a Wednesday. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
You two, in your rooms and do whatever the heck it is you do in there. You, over there, you stay with me. And you there, the little one, you go in the kitchen and ask Dad to help you. You might have to introduce yourself first.
There are tears. There is yelling. There is frustration. There is self doubt. And the kids get upset too.
And don't forget to study for the tests. These minds are still churning. They need to squeeze in some more of this knowledge before they go home for the summer and lose any potential academic advantage.
It's 10:00 at night. And it's May. I should be chin deep in a bottle of sauvignon blanc. The aromas of citrus and tropical fruits backed by characteristic herbaceous notes should be dancing across my lips right now. An exuberant wine brimming with juicy acidity and fruit sweetness, should be sliding down my throat. I should be overcome by the fresh, zesty, and lingering, finish. My head should start to become fuzzy and I should be smiling, thinking this is the life Jesus blessed me with.
Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Wake up. You fell asleep. AGAIN. What's this word?
Agony. The word is agony. Extreme physical or mental suffering. Mom is in pure agony having to do homework with you and not being able to drink her wine.
Oh, okay, now I get it. Thanks mom.
It's now 10:30. The homework is complete. Beau and I fall into each other's arms, defeated.
This is how we always pictured it. Just the two of us. Holding each other. After a night filled with hours of endless earth-shaking, mind-blowing, mind-boggling, hallucinatory, explosive, convulsive, homework.
Then Beau rolls over and whispers softly in my ear, "Babe, I know I don't remind you of this often enough," (Oh Em Gee. My heart just melted. I'm riddled with guilt. I'm instantly shamed for all of the manic thoughts I've had about strangling him with my own bare hands.) "but you forgot to make the lunches again."
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