With school coming to an end, my young professors are in high gear hoping to reach me with course curriculum reviews before my brain shuts down for summer.
Boy two was a mess on Monday. Nothing was fair. Injustice was large and everywhere. He found me alone later. “I think the problem is I just didn’t get any time by myself yesterday. It was all fun but there was no time by myself.” He was right. Three hours with his head in “The Princess and the Goblin,” by George MacDonald and he was fine. (So go and do likewise was the review piece I keep forgetting.)
Boy one is a fine young man . . . with whom of late I have become the chief head butter. 99.5 percent of all the times he is not just difficult but impossible, he feels hurt or misunderstood. Addressing those feelings fixes things almost immediately. On the other hand, carrying on about the uncrossed t’s and undotted i’s until he gets it right has not. Soon I will print out this paragraph and have it tattooed on my forearm where I can see it. Although since I work like this too, it is funny that I should ever forget it. (We two are card carrying black belt gold star premier members of the Best Defense is a Good Offense Club.)
Girls ages nine and six (who never really notice money) have been counting and recounting it in stacks nightly. This is due to a WEEK LONG Garage Sale at school to which they have had ongoing un-parentally-supervised visits. I convinced Girl two Thursday morning before school that she didn’t need anything more. Then she convinced me she wasn’t buying anything for herself, but for poor Boy one whose school wasn’t even having a garage sale. She came home two dollars poorer with jewels.
What did you get for Boy one? I asked.
What? Oh, nothing. Don’t worry, I can make him a card.
The evil garage sale is framed as a fundraiser for latrines and mosquito nets somewhere. I’m guessing that’s a ploy to keep the results of their psychological study pure. Someone has obviously paid them to find out how many trinkets it takes to torture a lone housekeeper in a colony of Neanderthals to death.
The weekend looks to be deliciously void of learning experiences. The young professors are off for their second Camping with Dad adventure. I’m hoping to hunker down and work on my neglected children’s novel. The taste of summer is in the air. The delight bordering on euphoria is not just about camping. The kids can’t sleep at night with all the light singing through the windows every evening that there are still trees to climb. When the light finally falls it’s the noise of country nights that thrill me. A thousand choirs of crickets, hundreds of croaking frog soloists, and scores of birds scheduled with different songs for different hours. On and on in the dark it goes requiring nothing of me. I smile that the noise of the kids in the morning will seem quiet by comparison.
My dreams are of lettuce soon from the garden, canoes on the river, and a mentor for our beekeeping pursuits.