My PE schedule changed this year. Since the dinosaurs roamed the earth, my first PE class has started at 9:15. I took this for granted with two kids, because I could get everyone up and out the door by 7:45, and then I could breathe a sigh of relief. I had plenty of time to take my own shower and sip my own cup of coffee in all the silence left behind, after the exodus of the children, and I was never crazy.
This year, I agreed to take a PE class at 8:15.
I have no idea what I was thinking either.
So now I basically run around the house like a hyper squirrel with a Mountain Dew IV drip on the days that I teach, as I get all the stuff done. I make the lunches; I set out the breakfasts. I make sure Thing 2 doesn’t look completely homeless with his daily wardrobe choice. I rush myself through the shower, and I rush through the application of mascara. (I’ve learned that this rushing during mascara time is usually a terrible choice, because last week I stuck myself in the eyeball with the mascara wand, and this week I dropped the wand down my face, so that a black trail commemorated the fall.) I have decided that I have no idea how working mothers get everyone out the door by 7:45. Who are these women? Do they get up at 3 AM to accomplish everything that needs to be done before they leave? I stand in awe of any woman who successfully pushes children and husbands and herself straight out of the front door before the bells toll eight. As for me and my household, we are going to have to revisit the morning schedule for my PE days, because we are turning into a wide pot o’ crazy over here.
This morning, the boy wanted soft boiled eggs for breakfast, because we have just recently learned how to make them. Oh, I’ve been able to boil eggs successfully for at least a couple of years now, but last month I saw a recipe for THE SOFT BOILED EGG, which was then dropped onto HOT BUTTERED TOAST, and I said to myself, “I think the party is right there.” So I made them one morning (one SUMMER morning, when nobody had to be anywhere on time, except for Hubs, who is fairly independent). They were delicious. The following morning, I made them for the boy, because the boy is in love with fried eggs, where the yolk runs free and spreads all over the plate. He has never been a fan of the BOILED egg, because… well... the yolk is solid. So, I was fairly certain he’d love this new recipe (*wink wink*). I made them, and it was true: The boy rose up, and he called me blessed among mothers. He complimented me AT LEAST three dozen times on how wonderful his eggs were that day, and then he asked me for “the recipe.”
I simply told him, “It’s a boiled egg that doesn’t stay in the water as long.”
WHO EVEN KNEW?!
Six and a half minutes, in a pot of boiling water, and there you are, people. Go ahead and thank me now, if this changes your life, because it will change your life FOR THE BETTER.
We have eaten our weight in boiled eggs at the Jedi Manor lately, because soft boiled eggs and hot buttered toast are better than Christmas morning. Even Hubs has gotten on board with them, which is nothing short of miraculous, because Hubs has always been opposed to ANY egg with a mushy yolk. If the yolk isn’t pale yellow and hard as a golf ball, Hubs turns up his nose and walks away, commenting that anyone who touches it will develop salmonella.
But one morning, he looked at the boy’s plate of soft boiled eggs and announced, “Those look good.”
And that’s how I have come to be the egg-boiler in the mornings. Everyone wants one, except Thing 2, who would rather be stabbed through the gut with a rusty sword than be in the same room with an egg.
This morning, there was a lot of rushing and a lot of me yelling out, “Hurry! Everyone! Please! Just… HURRY UP!!” So… you know… a USUAL sort of work morning for me. Hubs made me a cup of coffee, because he’s still the romantic man I married, twenty-three years later. I ran with my coffee to the bathroom, because I had a date with a mascara wand that was going to fall down my face and leave a black trail of horror on my cheek, but FIRST!
FIRST… I had to open the medicine cabinet to get the toothpaste…
… and I knocked a prescription bottle of old eye drops out of the cabinet.
That bottle of eye drops fell straight to its death…
… in my coffee cup.
It landed much like a six year old demonstrating the belly flop at a local neighborhood swimming pool, so… AS YOU’D EXPECT… coffee was displaced (Do you like my smart science term there?!). It basically exploded out of my cup like a raging volcano, spraying beige-colored coffee and cream all over everything within a twenty-six foot radius.
“I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy… down in my heart!”
I had to do some happy singing, before I cried over spilled cream and coffee.
And then I got myself to school, and I was even on time, which was a stunning revelation, considering that I had to clean mascara off my face and coffee off of everything and cook runny boiled eggs.
So now… we play catch-up on the blog, because I have been a negligent blogger, but we talked about that last night.
Long before school started… long before we cut the curls off, at Thing 2’s insistence… our second son decided to work toward earning a Lego train set. I know that YOUR KIDS are all perfect and adorable, so they’d NEVER need to correct certain behaviors, using a reward system, but we found ourselves smack in the middle of that territory. So… I bought the coveted Lego train set and a package of neon garage sale stickers.
On days when Thing 2’s behavior choices were pleasing unto me, he got to put a sticker on the box.
And when he had accumulated enough stickers, the Legos were his.
I have never seen such a willing student, who was determined to change, because TRAINS and LEGOS are his love languages. This was the pinnacle of everything that could make Thing 2 happy in life. We had a couple of weeks of GLORIOUSLY WONDERFUL BEHAVIOR, and Mama was happy. And Thing 2 was happy, as well, because every neon dot was one day closer to building that train set.
… it happened.
He had collected enough sticky dots, according to our notarized contract and legal terms.
He set up shop in the living room, which is Grand Lego Building Central at our house. This insures that there are ALWAYS plenty of Lego pieces for us to find in the dark of the night, with our bare feet.
(On a side note, Thing 2 stepped on a Lego brick with HIS bare feet one day about two weeks ago, and bawled his pain to the heavens and the earth. I felt a little sorry for him, but basically I just relished the chance to shout, “This is why I tell you to pick up the Legos! Because I’m always the one who steps on them with MY bare feet, and NOW YOU KNOW!!!” Fortunately, I said none of this, because I am a very mature parent.)
And then he built some more.
He studied instructions.
He cried when one section didn’t work out, and then he recruited his older brother to retrace his steps in the manual for him, until that eighteen year old had found the error. Together, they dismantled one section and added the missing brick, which made everything line up right.
Big brothers are worth their weight in gold when it comes to Lego help.
By that afternoon, Thing 2 had a train.
His mama begged to grow them long, but Thing 2 shut that dream down the week before 1st grade started. He likes his hair SHORT… and the shorter, the better, as far as he’s concerned.
Which means that a shaved military haircut… at a military school… instead of a Lego set… might work out fine the next time we need to get rid of some unwanted behaviors!
Happy Tuesday, everyone!