An hour after I wrote yesterday's post Mr. D called me from his office. Matt had called him to say "Stuff had come up and it will be at least 2 weeks before he will be able to come work at our house." I hung up and called my first choice--he should drop by today or Monday latest. There's a chance--the slender thread of hope--that I'll get my garden planted on Mother's Day.
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Last night we had another breach on Mr. D's side of the bed (naturally--he is the weakest link and the enemy knows it). The boys know the Fear Card works like a charm. I stand firm, cede no territory on our mattress and relegate them to a spot on the couch or on our floor in a sleeping bag (kept handily beneath my bedside table). They don't even attempt to gain access on my side of the bed anymore. They go right to Mr. D, the midnight whimper and terrified sobs exquisitely effective in breaking down his defenses.
When the child started his assault on my side of the bed, I retreated upstairs to the guest bedroom and discovered 2 kids sleeping on the floor. Then I went to their empty bedroom, but the thought that the bed I lay on might be wet had me retracing my tracks to the couch. Lady Vi joined me, her steady purr and the clock's steady ticking lulled me at least to sleep--again vanquished in the Bedroom Wars.
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The Foot Odor Wars have begun. When I was a teenager I had the most horrific foot odor. Unfortunately, the cool look in the 80's was Tretorn sneakers without socks (regardless of where you lived--Georgia or Wisconsin, fashion dictated by Seventeen Magazine overruled common sense). My parents insisted I leave my sneakers in the garage--they stunk up the whole house.
T's started wearing his Heelys without socks and the smell is overwhelming. Last night he sat next to me at B's karate graduation and no one else sat near us. I blamed his foot odor since the school was packed and 2 people who initially sat beside us got up and moved away. For the entire hour I breathed in his stench, that awful precursor of other body odors certain to take over our house within the next few years.
When we got home I took the Heelys to the back porch and filled them with baking soda. Didn't matter, the damage was done. I opened the laundry room door this morning and all I can smell is raunchy feet. I can't even be that mad because I know he inherited the stinky feet gene from me.
A lot of the things I learned in childhood are essentially useless in my adult life (tap dancing, weaving potholders, the lyrics to Mary Poppins). Obviously other knowlege (swimming, riding a bike, cross-stitching, folding perfect paper airplanes) comes in handy. However, I never counted on baton lessons proving useful. Apparently, if you can twirl baton, you're set to handle nunchuckas and kamas. Who knew?
This knowlege makes me take majorettes more seriously.
What childhood lessons surprise you with their usefulness?
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