Monday, August 17, 2015

Does it even make sense what I'm doing?

This afternoon, just as we were getting ready to head out the door, Benjamin walked out of my bathroom, where he'd run to get some chapstick. Instead had a tube of Burt's Bees "guava lip shimmer" and was smearing it all over his face.

"Does it even make sense what I'm doing?" he asked innocently, his cheeks purple-hued and sparkling.

No, buddy. It doesn't. But little ever does make sense when you're the brains behind the operation.

He was quite put out when I took a washcloth and wiped his face.

"I wanted it there!" he wailed.

This boy gets away with more fashion faux pas than I'd like to admit. On Saturday, for example, he wore his shirt backwards the entire day—he went out shopping, visited the library, and attended Rachel's birthday party, all with his shirt on backwards.

But I put my foot down on the whole leaving the house with a purple face business.


*******

We've been eating leftovers quite a bit lately. We had a whole tray of macaroni and cheese from the Grad Parents barbecue, pizza from Rachel's party, and leftovers from Friday's dinner as well. Our fridge is bursting at the seams.

Yesterday (much like tonight) we let everyone heat up whatever they wanted for dinner.

Rachel was carrying a plate of cold macaroni and cheese from her spot at the table to the microwave when she tripped on Zoë's little chair and went sprawling.

You know how things kind of seem like they're happening in slow motion sometimes? This was one of those moments for me (and I was only watching).

Rachel tripped on Zoë's chair and lurched forward. Her plate flipped out of her hands, launching bits of mac'n'cheese twisting and twirling down to the kitchen floor. Rachel desperately clawed at thin air, trying to maneuver her body away from the baby seat, but it was impossible. You could see the panic in her face as she realized the inevitable—she was going to land right on the baby.

At the last second, Andrew shoved the baby seat with his foot, sending it skittering across the floor, and lurched to catch Rachel...but missed...and she landed flat on her face, spreadeagle on the floor.

There were plenty of tears, but only a couple of bruises.

About half an hour later we went on a family walk and Miriam pulled a similar stunt only on the asphalt. She wasn't bleeding so I told her she could "walk it off," a phrase which makes my children laugh because Grandpa believes that will cure any ailment (including labour and kidney stones).

"Just walk it off," I said, and by the time we got home she more or less had (though she still had to show her non-existent injuries to all her grandparents on Skype).

I felt pretty bad when she came off the bus this afternoon and proudly showed me her very angry-looking bruises. Her poor knees! No wonder she'd been complaining (though I don't know why they took so long to show up).

*******

Oh, one more story.

I'm in charge of Trading Tables. And I was asked to give the closing prayer in Relief Society on Sunday. I was actually asked to give the opening prayer but I was nursing, so...I gave the closing prayer instead. And then right after I closed the Relief Society President said, "While you're up here and before everyone leaves, why don't you make an announcement about Trading Tables? It's not an official Relief Society activity," she explained to the room, "But there are so many new sisters that it might be a good idea to explain it here."

"Okay," I said, caught off guard. "Trading Tables will be...in September...on the..."

"Twelfth," my friend Lisa stage-whispered to me from her seat.

"Right. September twelfth. And I think it's at 11:00. It might be at 10:00. I can't remember what I said. Anyway, you just show up with whatever you want to get rid of and then shop around for things you could use. It's how I keep my kids in clothes!"

And I probably yammered on for a few more minutes out of sheer nervousness.

I just kept thinking how silly it was of me not to remember the date when I had been the one to plan it in the first place. My brain was screaming at me the whole time but I couldn't make out what it was saying. Now I know.

It was saying, "Does it even make sense what I'm doing?!"

*******

I'm so tired. So unbelievably tired. I couldn't even think of a segue between stories. I couldn't even remember if I had more stories to tell. I couldn't even think of a better title than to quote Benjamin: "Does it even make sense what I'm doing?"

I think that's going to be my motto for the next little while of my life.

Does it even make sense what I'm doing?

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