For the Books

Do you ever have one of those days, you get up and are sure everything is going to be perfect. All the hassles you have previously known are not going to be a problem, not only are they not going to be a problem, they aren’t even going to be a blip on your radar. They are gone.

And then your ten and a half-year-old comes to you looking like a ghost saying she doesn’t feel well. In fact she thinks she might throw up. All of a sudden the eggs you just ate for breakfast decide it’s time to see how fast they can exit your system. You send your child to the bathroom, after yelling at her sister to vacate the room because, “YOUR SISTER IS GOING TO BE SICK!” You vainly try and convince your own body you are not sick. Not at all sick. You’re fine. Just because someone mentioned they might throw up is no reason to have a coronary.

It doesn’t work.

Then you realize your just-turned-eight-year-old has been out of bed for almost an hour, and still has not finished her chores so she can eat breakfast. In fact, she has been coming to you every 2 minutes, “Momma, this” and “Momma, that…” so much that you’re ready to pitch her out the window into a snow bank if she even  thinks of saying your name again…ever.

That was my world this morning. Thankfully it improved greatly as the day went on. The sick child realized she wasn’t all that sick, really and being in bed is boring.  She didn’t eat much, she said she was afraid to and who can blame her.  The non-ill child finally managed to get her chores done, breakfast eaten and school started.

She even managed to do quite a bit of math, and got the majority of them right. I will never as long as I live understand why a child who does math as well as she does, claims to not like it at all.  She most certainly did not get her math ability from me. And I have shared with my children why I didn’t like math as a child. And believe me, they do not have my excuse…reason. Not at all.

The eight-year old had a birthday party this evening. A rare occurrence.  The ten-and-a-half-year old thought she would like to have Culver’s at home. I’m always game for that and Mr. FullCup was too. That is an added bonus.

Now Mr. FullCup is out, the girls are in bed. Although the eight-year-old came out not to long ago to tell me my music was too loud. Since when did she become the parent? I wanted to tell her, “If it’s too loud, you’re too old” but I refrained and instead only told her to go back to bed.

The house is quiet. Ahhhhhhhhh. All is once again right in my world.