Summer
a.k.a. misery and swimsuit angst.
We
ended the school year with a nasty cold. Monkey came home an absolute grouch on
the last day of school. Not what you’d expect from a kid who’s been looking
forward to summer break since, oh, September.
Turned
out he was sick and the misery has made its way through the family, which is
why I’ve been MIA. When all you can come up with to blog about is the quantity
and consistency of mucous, it’s best not to post.
But
now we’re finding our summer groove and despite my first sentence, I’m feeling
optimistic about the next two months.
For
one thing, Kory has been court ordered to take a vacation. Well, not quite. But
he’s about to max out on vacation time, and was told he better take time off.
I, of course, have been telling him he needs a break for months. Not sure yet
what we’ll do. Nothing too spectacular. That’s just not how we roll.
In
order to avoid constant guilt over letting the boys have too much screen time,
I set up some daily requirements for math, reading and exercise. They’re pretty
minimal but at least at the end of the summer I won’t be handing little Neanderthals
back to the teachers.
My
mom sent up a box of old comic books—Hagaar the Horrible, Beetle Bailey, B.C.,
Peanuts—and the boys are devouring them. Great literature? Maybe not, but
everything counts when you’re nurturing a life-long Neanderthal, I mean, reader.
Monkey
is taking drum lessons, going to band camp, and banging the heck out of his
snare drum on a daily basis. He’s not interested in using the practice pad, so
we’re urging him to keep the pounding to daylight hours.
I
wish I could say my yearly swimsuit search was over. As if I didn’t already
need Xanax just to face swimsuit season, this year Target.com is determined to
fit me with a straight jacket for all my water fun needs.
I ordered a swim top
and shorts and received the top and a pair of bikini bottoms. The bottoms were …
unacceptable. I tried again and received another bikini bottom instead of the
shorts. I called and had the pleasure of speaking to a highschooler about my
swimwear needs. He told me the website was in error and to try ordering my
shorts again in a week.
Today
I went back to Target.com and it’s obvious someone attempted to correct the
error. The swim shorts that were incorrectly labeled bikini bottoms have been
changed to swim shorts. The verbiage is correct for the black swim shorts and
the blue swim shorts, but the purple swim shorts I want are still labeled
bikini bottoms. I called and talked to someone from Mexico about my problem. He
said he’d submit a report and I could check back in a few days.
Meanwhile,
I have that funny old ad snafu running through my head:
Our
swimsuits are sensational! They’re simply the tops!
Looks
like I’ll be making do with last year’s bathing suit a little while longer.
If
you’re luckier than me, lounging by the pool in adequate swimwear, and looking
for a good read, I have a suggestion.
My
friend Carla’s book Five Days in Skye is just the kind of delicious escape read
that begs for a towel and umbrella drink. It releases today!
So
what does this summer hold for you?
Monkey
is afraid of bees. Really, really afraid. I’d go so far as to call it a phobia.
So I looked up fear of bees and discovered that it’s called either Apiphobia or
Melissophobia. Who comes up with this stuff? Apiphobia sounds believable, but
if you tell someone you have Melissophobia they’re going to ask you why the
heck you’re afraid of people named Melissa.
Furthermore,
if the fear of bees is called Melissophobia then WHAT pray tell IS the fear of
people named Melissa called? Beeophobia?
Silly
scientific community.
Anyway,
it’s hard to get Monkey outdoors in the summer. This is mostly because of
his love affair with screens, but the Apiphobia definitely contributes.
The
other day Kory came home from one of his strange shopping rambles and said, “I
found something that might help our son go outside.”
I
expected an insect-repelling bracelet or something. We’ve tried them in the
past. But he held up an electricity-charged tennis racket, a bug zapper. Of
course, my first question was, “What will it do to people?” I wasn’t born
yesterday. Monkey has a little brother who is at times quite vexing. I could see
the temptation becoming more than a big brother can bear.
Anyway,
Kory assured me it was mostly harmless to humans.
So
the other day we planned to take the dog to a nearby field for some exercise.
Monkey raised his usual objections (bees!), but Kory pulled out the bug zapper.
Thus armed, our less-than-intrepid 11-year-old stepped out into the wilderness
of suburbia.
As
you might guess, having the bug zapper prompted Monkey to search out bugs for annihilation.
But it’s spring in Colorado. We’ve had approximately two and a half warm days.
There weren’t a lot of bugs roaming the sidewalks. And turns out it’s hard to
angle the electrified racket to zap a tiny ant.
We
trudged out of our neighborhood and into the grass and packed dirt of the
nearby field. Monkey kept his eyes on the ground, searching for victims. And
then, a big black beetle ambled across the path.
Monkey
froze, zeroing in on the bug. He yelled for his brother to come. They hovered over
their target, exited, blood-thirsty.
You
see, the beetle was exactly like the one who viciously killed Monkey’s
roley poley last October while we were out for a walk. They resurrected the travesty of the roley
poley’s demise and pinned it on this beetle representative.
Things
went a little Lord of the Flies. Shouts of “The roley poley shall be avenged!”
rang out. The racket was raised. Chunky had found a trident-like stick which he
waved in the air in support of his brother’s campaign.
I
thought, this is a good time to teach them about appreciating nature, the
sanctity of life, the fact that vengeance belongs to the Lord.
Then
I walked away. I can’t justify it. I just did.
Whoops,
hollers, and the distinct zip of electricity followed. I cringed as they
shouted, “We are avenged!”
I
joined Kory up on top of the hill, ready to lay the blame for our vicious
children on his Y chromosome contribution. I found him scooping up another
black beetle from the path. He tossed it into the weeds, saving it from the
oncoming monsters.
The
boys joined us, pink-cheeked and triumphant. Monkey held up the racket. “It
works, Dad!”
Then
he handed his weapon, his defense against bees, his “safety net” to me and ran
off to play with the dog.
It
had to be done.
On
Monday I moved our female turtle, Molly, into her own house. The amazing habitat my husband built just
wasn’t big enough for two anymore. Ever since Molly came out of hibernation,
Roger has made the poor girl’s existence a nightmare. If she so much as pokes
her face out of the substrate, he thinks it’s time for some lovin’.
She
wasn’t eating or bathing. She wouldn’t even come out from under her rock. Poor
thing needed some intervention.
So
I fixed up a plastic crate with rocks, wood chips, a private bath and a
flower-festooned clay hut. Then I transferred Molly to her new digs. She loves
it! Now she comes out, eats, and tootles around her home.
The
only problem is, I had to put Molly’s house inside the bigger habitat so she’d
get the light and heat she needs from the special lamps. Since her new home is
clear plastic, Roger can still see the object of his affection.
He
crawls along the edge like a lovesick peeping tom, clawing at the plastic. I
think if he could howl, he would. I’m hoping time will calm his wild turtle
urges, but until then it’s bachelorhood for Roger.
The
thing is, I know how he feels. And I’m not referring to spring time friskiness. (We won’t go there.) I know what it’s like to
see the thing I want yet be blocked by a barrier I don’t understand. I see my
goal of publication and I scratch away, trying to move toward it, and I think, “Why
can’t I get there? Why can’t I have that?”
Poor
Roger and me. We need a distraction. We need to appreciate the stuff we have.
Maybe we should take up a hobby. What if I dipped him in paint and let him
crawl over a canvas? That would keep us both occupied for a while, and maybe
Turtle Art would be the next big thing.
Anyone
else out their frustrated? What’s the goal you can see but just can’t get to?
And
how much would you pay for art created by a licentious turtle?
More Recent Articles
