Monday, March 13, 2006

Outta town or outta my mind

Friday, repeat Wednesday morning’s wake-up routine. The twelve year old asks if he can wear his slippers to school. I figure he’s not awake yet. When I say no, he asks if he can wear his pajamas to school. I’m worried he’s missing his mom and experiencing some kind of regression and thinks he’s in pre-school. I’ve already gotten the pants/dress shirt/tie combo ready and his jacket is downstairs waiting. Then he tells me it’s free dress day. Well, that explains the odd clothing request. But somehow I don’t think casual dress includes Homer Simpson slippers. Battle ensues. I enlist the aid of the sixteen year old. No, free dress does not mean pj’s. We finally decide on his Yaz shirt and his camo shorts (if you don't know who Yaz is, you're obviously not a citizen of Red Sox Nation). Shoot. Can't find Yaz T-shirt. Schilling T-shirt is dirty. Finally settle on the authentic "Big Papi" Ortiz Red Sox uniform shirt. And no, you can't wear it to baseball practice. It is NOT a play shirt.

Drop the twelve year old at school. Phew! Nobody is wearin' their pj's. Good call. Check the list. We have a busy afternoon ahead of us. Guess what? The twelve year old starts baseball practice tomorrow. He needs new baseball cleats. And while we're at it, he needs some lacrosse gear. Oh yeah, he's playing soccer, too. But first he has to go to the end-of-season bowling party with his hockey team. Did I mention the kid's a sports nut?

Okay, pick up twelve year old at school, go to sports store. Shopping with a tired twelve year old is not fun. In fact it is sucking the life outta me. Which is not a good thing because it’s only 4 and, though I don't know it yet, my day won’t end for another five hours.

Lacrosse cleats…check

Baseball cleats...sorry we only have metal cleats in his size. Metal cleats are illegal for twelve year olds. For good reason. Especially when your twelve year old is the catcher.

Okay. He can wear the lacrosse cleats for baseball. I think. And soccer. I hope.

Baseball pants...check

Lacrosse pads...check


Head home to drop off the twelve year old before picking up the sixteen year old at lacrosse practice at 5:30. Get stuck in traffic...oh did I say traffic? I meant the parking lot...on the beltway. Go one exit. In forty minutes. Realize you can't take the twelve year old home and get to lacrosse practice on time, so head to sixteen year old's school while twelve year old sleeps in the car. Lucky stiff. Sit in traffic going the other way. Get to lacrosse practice at 6:15. Fortunately practice has run late again. Why don't they just change the schedule? No time to take sixteen year old home before returning to downtown Bethesda for twelve year old's hockey party. Try to figure out how to avoid traffic. No mapquest. No GPS cuz we're drivin' the Beemer. Fine time to switch cars.

Somehow find our way to bowling alley, drop off the twelve year old. Drop off the sixteen year old's friend. She had no idea she was going to be driving an hour to get home, which is ten minutes from the school. Take the sixteen year old home. Take a bathroom break. Go back to Bethesda to pick up twelve year old. Hang out in the bowling alley. He's having a GREAT time. And he's bowling pretty well, even if he is wearing goofy shoes. Finally get home at nine. Remember to get baseball gear ready. Everybody stays up late.

Saturday. Get up at seven thirty because the sixteen year old may need a ride to lacrosse. Phone rings. She has a ride. Feed dogs and let them out. Go back to bed for an hour. Go to wake twelve year old. He's already up. The Dad came home late last night and got up early to help him. Tear the twelve year old away from his new computer game (Wednesday's mall trip!) and send him back upstairs to get dressed.

Twelve year old announces the baseball pants we bought yesterday don't fit. He wears last year's pants, which don't fit either, but he likes them better. He wears the Yaz T-shirt. It was in his hockey bag. (YES, I washed it! Sheesh!) Tear the twelve year old away from the computer game. Again. His ride will be here any minute. Tear the twelve year old away from the tv. His ride will be here shortly. Tear the twelve year old away from the kitchen tv. Still waiting on the ride. Ride arrives, twelve year old off to baseball and a sleepover. I miss him already. But I get over it and go back to bed.

Dad has offered to pick up the sixteen year old from lacrosse and take her to the mall to see her favorite tv show's cast. I'm free til seven. I attempt to wash the car. Skip the roof. It's an SUV. Nobody's tall enough to see it anyway. The bed is calling me...

Get back outta bed and take a shower. Wait til seven thirty to pick up the mom and the eighteen year old at the airport. Home. Dinner. Bed.

Sunday. Get up late. Throw everything in my bag and go home.

Make plans to go back again in two weeks. You know what's really sick? I actually enjoy this!

PS - no, I didn't forget about the dogs. But their routine doesn't change much. Let them out. Feed them. Let them back in again. Regain possession of my socks from Scout the Wonder Dog. Take kids to school. Go home and let the dogs out. Go to the park and let them chase the ball. Go home. Let them out. Pick up the kids. Feed the dogs. Let them out. Let them out again before bed. Repeat process each day. They never tire of it.