Fallible Friday

After perusing some other blog sites to see how I could better mine, I found that having a day during the week with the same theme every week is quite popular (and no, I am not too proud to admit that I scam others’ ideas  . . . but just the idea, mind you.  Not the actual word usage/theme/storyline).  Anywho, I’ve come up with two themes for the week: Mug Shot Mondays and Fallible Fridays, the latter of which we begin today.   Mug Shot Mondays will debut in a mere three days, so be prepared to see my kids’ dirty laundry aired . . . and no, that is not just a figure of speech.  I am certain that some dirty laundry will inevitably end up in their “mug shots” from the week prior – I promise to document anything stupid/silly/questionable I catch them doing . . . and Number One has a real winner from this morning.  Stay tuned!

So we begin with Fallible Fridays, where I will document the weeks’ transgressions, shortfalls, and utter failures.  Some weeks may have more than others as my moods fluctuate from stable to get-the-hell-out-of-my-way.  This week, however, is mild in terms of failure.

Huh.  Surprisingly, looking back on the week, there’s not much to complain about.  No big fails until Thursday/Friday.  Lookin’ good, Mama!

No matter how good the beginning of the week looked in terms of parenting/teaching my kids valuable life lessons, Thursday was a struggle.  It was a beautiful day, which was almost a thorn in my rose.  I stared out the window at a yard smothered in leaves and dreaded the foreseeable future, the one that found me raking all by my lonesome.  “Have the boys help you!” said my eternally optimistic neighbor.  Great idea, I agreed, until I thought about the ramifications of their “help” – bickering, complaining, whining, snacking, full out fighting, and the constant, never ending blabbering.  Sigh.  I was tired and hadn’t even picked up a rake, but I had made my first huge parenting mistake of the day by letting my kids off the hook because I didn’t have the patience to deal with them.  This is why I am still the only one (beside the other adult in the house) doing dishes, laundry, dusting, and picking up dirty undies from the bathroom floor.  Theirs, obviously.

It was near dark when I finally got a bee in my bonnet to start up the leaf blower (by myself, of course) and see if I could just blow the leaves into a pile (not exactly how that works, right?!).  Attempt number one to start the blower failed.  Attempt number two to start the blower failed, as did attempts numbered three and four.  I found myself kicking the blower, slamming the door and locking myself in the bathroom huffing and puffing and wiping tears of frustration out of my eyes.  As I got a hold of myself and left the bathroom, there was my former temper-tantrumming nine-year-old, eyes full of worry, asking me if I was okay.  How does one tell their kid they were just throwing a fit like the one their kid was put in timeout for?  Seriously, I need to know because I didn’t tell him anything of the sort.  I lied.  I told him I hurt myself trying to start the blower and not the truth (I threw a huge fit, kicked the blower, slammed the door and swore under my breath because of an inanimate object.  ‘Please do as I say and not as I do’ does not work for me.  But lying?  Yep, that’s something I can handle.).  I did end up getting that damn blower to start, but then it ran out of gas five minutes into the job.  And no, I did not know how to fill it back up.

Friday, Friday, fabulous Friday.  Seven am found one kid sick and one bouncing off the walls.  I had to turn that energy of his into something positive so we raked.

Hours of toiling over a yard smothered in leaves was surprisingly serene and beautiful.

Hours of toiling over a yard smothered in leaves was surprisingly serene and beautiful.

Well, I raked.  He de-raked, which wasn’t that big of a deal because let me tell you, exercise really is good for the soul.  I was loving the OCD-like methodology of dividing the yard into a quadrant of six . . .wait.  Wouldn’t that be a sextant? I guess not, but based on the mathematical (? Probably wrong there, too) fact that sex means six . . . anyway, it was smooth sailing for me.  My stress from the week was a meltin’ away.  I was even looking forward to mowing the whole yard after the leaves were gone, and wouldn’t you know it?  It was the mower that spoiled that fun for me.  That a-hole wouldn’t start.  All I wanted to do was mow the stinkin’ yard after the hours I spent raking all those leaves.  One would think that after the raking, my arm muscles would be bulging and pulling the mower rope would be a cinch, but sadly, no.  Hopefully none of my neighbors were within earshot of me muttering to the mower and myself, and thus doing my children no favors at all by my nonexistent approach to filtering myself and censoring my less-then-positive behaviors.

Soo, long story short, I’ll keep the griping and complaining to Fridays because we all know I’m going to do it anyway.  I might as well find the right outlet for it.