Set this party off

Updated: my cousin just reminded me that her father, a Wilson, married an Allbritton, her mother, who is also from the same original group of Allbrittons as my wasband. Our Wilson-Allbritton wedding invitations were a joke because of this. That Wilson-Allbritton union went belly-up as well. From the source: "I would devote a whole page to explaining why Wilsons and Allbrittons CANNOT marry....like a chemical reaction, the chemicals are initially attracted to each other and create a really pretty color...then explode after seven minutes of chemically bonding." Because, people, this is science, which is always true.

If you want to add to your understanding what it means to live as perfectly imperfect (to augment what I clearly have to teach you about it), go read this blog at Momastery. Joy unto me. Because you know that split second between when you realize you are about to spill something that is going to be difficult to clean up and the moment it actually happens? That mood-altering moment between oh sh*t! and sonofabitch! I exist in that space, almost entirely, from head-off-pillow to head-on-pillow. And I'm not afraid of it at all, because I do it boldly, assertively, and with supreme confidence that more often that not, I will not make that big a mess.

 

Pajama pants on the face are required when apple, meatloaf and mac and cheese are thrown up on the floors and walls in two rooms.

School started a month ago. You know what else started when school started? Fifth grade tackle football. And junior high. Jesus wept.

 

The original edict was that Landen would play flag football until he was twelve. Because Landen with sports injuries is a very bad idea. Also because they practice three times a week and I really like my evenings off. Then we decided, after the boy signed himself up, that we would look into it, for the various benefits of rigorous physical activity, and because better his ass gets kicked on the football field by kids comparable in size to him than by me, who is perilously close to knocking him permanently sideways.

 

Landen - adorable, witty, funny, and affectionate as he is - has a problem with authority. And I have the biggest of all big problems with that. Epic, "Clash of the Titans" type battle of wills. He does not understand that I AM THE ADULT and HE IS THE CHILD, and so we do not live under the same set of rules. Also it is okay for me to do stuff that it is not okay for him to do, and this really chaps his ass.

 

After his dad kept fussing at me to stop saying so many words and start doing more you are not allowed to speak any more for fear of pain and go immediately to your room and Nashville threatened to get in her car and come ring his bell for me, I altered my approach. I say it once. Any response other than yes ma'am, no ma'am or the movement I have just demanded means I am no longer speaking to you and you should get to your room.

 

We all thought that football would a) provide him with successive humbling experiences that would contribute to his acceptance of his place as a child in a grown-up world; b) teach him to respect authority; and c) put something else (team, family, another person) before himself.

 

So far, we are experiencing nothing but an impressive growth in ego. And more mothereffing laundry.

Now, the other one. That Jake. In week four, I cannot tell whether the junior high experience is hormonal or assholal, or a colossally unfortunate and inconvenient combination of both. Because we are having some lying issues. Some making irresponsible choices and hoping nobody notices issues. Some not understanding that your job is to be a student issues. Some I want to hurt you like you are grown issues. I *think* we have worked through some of that and are on the mend. The phone and video game privileges have been suspended, and he was just allowed to return to taekwondo this week, after three weeks on the bench.

 

However, when the yearbook comes home, one may not notice the absence of video games when he can spend extraordinary amounts of time staring at the two pages of classmates. Specifically ones who have long hair and wear skirts and who may or may not have experienced some noticeable physical changes over the summer.

 

Because GIRLS.

 

 

Two Thursdays ago, after their weekly dinner, one of the boys got very upset when his dad was leaving, which is very unusual for him. We had hit one of those broken family walls because we want to see our dad every day or we do not understand why our dad will not spend one night at the house every week or we want to go stay 30 miles away at his place in the middle of the week. Because unmarriage and co-parenting are Forever Tries, I suggested, because I have some sort of martyr complex, that maybe it would make you feel better and WOULDN'T IT BE A GREAT IDEA if Daddy stayed until bedtime on Thursday nights. The Crying Child called the Upset Daddy to make this request, while I was holding my breath in a conflicted pleaselethimsayyesbutalsodammit way.  

 

He said of course, of course.

 

My friends were all "you get Thursday nights to yourself!" and made suggestions about seeing friends or having drinks or sitting alone in quiet bookstores or running errands and I am indignant at all suggestions because my priority is putting on yoga pants and taking off my bra. But while being a mom and dad together is good for celebrations, sporting events, and come-to-Jesus meetings, evenings together in the House That Used To Be is odd. Because, you know, he used to live here and then decided not to and now there is a For Sale sign in the yard and all.

 

So then I declared that I was feeding everybody tacos, doing the dishes, and going to bed. The studying, hanging out, and tucking in was All Dad All Thursdays. At 7:15 PM, the wasband walked by my bedroom where I was loaded up with phone, iPad, and laptop, facedown in the pillows. He stopped and asked if I was okay, as one might be inclined to do if they suspected the mother of his children to be suffocating herself after declaring every day for a year that she has had it and she is DONE, and I said "I'M SO HAPPY!" I stayed in the bed, playing Candy Crush watching the second season of Scandal on Netflix, not giving two sh*ts what was happening in the next room, until I heard the boys heading upstairs. I came out of hiding to kiss and hug my kids before they were tucked in bed, told their dad to lock me in when he left, and returned from whence I came.

 

I told myself I was going to zumba tonight, but now that I have put it all out there about how head-tilting odd it sounds but how relieving and necessary it is in person to have the wasband under the roof every Thursday night, and because I have diagnosed myself with general malaise and fatigue, zumba will have to wait until next week.

Tonight they don't even get the tacos.