High quality parents that we are, at a ridiculously late hour on Saturday night, Chris and I kinda sorta stole (er… ate) the better part of a pint of ice cream that belonged to Elise. When she groggily ambled down the stairs yesterday morning with every intention of eating ice cream for breakfast, I really wasn’t in a position to say no when she asked if I’d drive her through Caribou to get a bagel. The ultimate point of this confession is for me to tell you the car in front of us paid for our order. And perhaps to keep it real. Yeah, ice cream for breakfast is an iffy parenting move, but I’m doing the best I can here. Meanwhile, back at Caribou, we in turn paid for the order of the person behind us, but we most definitely got the sweet end of the deal; as we ended up paying about a third of what we’d have had to pay for our own order.
The moral of the story, obviously, is that it pays to steal your kid’s ice cream.
Kidding. Kind of.
I really love the Sunday of a holiday weekend. Not having the usual Monday morning rigmarole hanging over my head is freeing. I decided to use said freedom to take on some long overdue weeding, and Chris and I completed a series of other long overdue outdoor tasks which I will not bore you with; other than to say my body had worked hard, we’d accomplished the things we’d wanted for the day, and I was exhausted in the best possible way.
Having decided enough work had been completed for the day, I showered and plopped my arse onto the couch. I was ready to relax and start thinking about what we’d eat for supper. I may or may not have been dozing off when Chris informed me there was a spigot on outside and one of our window wells was filling with water, as was the basement.
Throw in neighbors equipped with both all necessary tools and hearts of gold, fast forward about 90 minutes, and this is what our basement looked like. There’s more fun to be seen if you actually go into the bathroom and guest room.
My role in this transformation was essentially to stay out of the way. While there was no shortage of work to be done, there was only one wet/dry vac; and I don’t think anyone would want me cutting out drywall or carpet pads. At one point I did actually ask what I could do, and my kind contractor neighbor said, “Just stay calm.” Which I like to think I did.
If this tale is not the most perfect illustration of the coronacoaster, I don’t know what is.
In a matter of a few hours, we went from belting out Bill W’s Lovely Day to ripping up basement carpet. At around 8pm, Chris had a call (yeah, on Sunday evening of a holiday weekend– I don’t ask anymore and you shouldn’t either, but no he’s not part of the mafia).
And then we had a zoom meeting on the agenda. Of course. Elise was scheduled to log on with her soccer team and coach at 8, at which point everything that could possibly go wrong with technology did, indeed, go wrong. She was understandably anxious and stressed out, dad was on the phone, and I was spent.
So, when my friend asked if I wanted to come over and enjoy her fire pit, it took about 2.7 seconds for me to accept the offer. I couldn’t quite bring myself to leave my phone in the car, so while there I fielded a few texts regarding the zoom call, where I maturely told a fellow soccer mom we’d given up on the meeting and that I had zero fucks to give about it. Chris eventually called to question where I was and then sent a text:
Apparently leaving the house without a word to anyone causes concern. Who knew?
Yes, I was fine. I had a brief opportunity to run away from home and I took it. And am glad I did.
This morning, I’m definitely feeling like I’ve just completed the coronacoaster and stepped off the ride. My body feels as if it’s been thrashed around a bit, thanks to the weeding. My mind is decompressing a bit, processing the ride; and I’m hoping today is more a walk through the garden sort of affair instead of a trip to the amusement park.
Be Well, Friends. And make sure all your spigots are off.