If you’ve read any of my previous posts from this week [thank you, dear faithful 7: your checks are in the mail], you already know that I was blessed with a few days away with my husband. I tagged along to his held-at-a-casino-convention, where, I’ve learned, wonders never cease.
My friend Kamarah and I often joke about how we return home from these getaways and feel like we need “a vacation from our vacation.” We’re immediately thrust from sleeping in, moseying about in slippers and eating croissants in the bathtub–to screaming children with runny noses and school papers that need signing post haste.
It’s like Apollo 13. You’re told you’ll be leaving the peaceful “dark side of the moon” and re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere. You’ll be hurtling through a wall of fire which, in all probability will consume you. If you don’t blow up, disintegrate or burn to a crisp in the process, you’ll be pummeled into the icy pond that is the Pacific Ocean. At that point, you will have to locate some sort of flotation device which, let’s be honest, stands no chance against the mighty jaws of the Great Whites which will be following the scent of your toasted vessel as you bob helplessly, waiting for rescue.
Welcome Home! You made it!
Frankly, I think there needs to be an adjustment period.
Here are my Apollo 13 moments since arriving home, as compiled by my can’t-sleep brain at 12:38 am:
1. Excessive sibling fighting, including hitting, tripping, and the blunt-force use of foreign objects–“on accident”
2. Son doing a “jig” at the bus stop and purposely flinging his new shoes high into the air and half-way down the street. Awesome. I informed him that if they were ruined before Christmas he’ll be wearing bread bags on his feet.
3. Nobody likes my cooking. This topic deserves its own entry, because…for real. It is a problem. But anyway, my first-round draft pick tonight was “a lovely boneless-skinless chicken breast prepared in Swanson’s broth with a hint of fresh garlic.” That’s right people: FRESH garlic–not the dried or jarred variety. Tom Colicchio would sit in stunned silence at my originality and execution. The judges at our house are the kids, who insisted on smothering it with Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ Sauce. Whatever. I’m over it. However, the downside to this is that I later found the sauce smeared all over the doorknob to our front door. And, yep–I sure did stick my hand directly in it.
4. Kids still awake at 9:40 pm. What’s up with THAT?!
5. My daughter appears to have another infection on her rather-newly-pierced-ear. And a cavity in her rather-newly-not-thoroughly brushed tooth.
6. I missed my chiropractic appointment and feel like I can tell the difference. I need a good cracking adjustment.
7. Continuing, I feel “off” today and wonder if this means I’m getting sick, just tired, or if I should consider doing something drastic like altering my diet. I read on Shauna’s blog about the changes her family is making, and she’s one of many people who I know or have heard of who are going down that path. My concerns, however, are many. Not the least of which is that 1] since I have few culinary successes anyway, what the heck am I going to cook if I can’t use gluten, sugar, or dairy? and 2] that my family will starve and secretly begin to scavenge local compost piles to find food they can “re-purpose.”
8. Sinus issues galore with the kids.
9. Returning briefly to point #3, Tuesday night I unearthed a frozen block of leftover homemade beef and barley soup. I reheated it, added a few more seasonings [which I identified with my highly trained palate], and coupled it with sour-dough grilled cheese sandwiches. Quick and easy, I thought, having just returned from the casino.
My husband, God love him, turns to me and holds up one hand to hide the activity of the other hand which is making a vigorous “thumbs down” motion. At the same time, he jokingly whispers something like a gag and “blah” noise to me [still giving me the vigorous thumbs down]. Only my eldest and myself are eating the soup. Husband starts laughing a little when kids 2 and 3 reject the bowl of food debris. Then he says to me, “Where did you get this? [ha ha, he laughs] It tastes like S@#%!”
Now, I’ll be honest, because of the jovial mood and his ridiculous charades, I was not offended or hurt by this, but instead, burst out laughing.
He then postulated that I opened a can of Aldi soup.
To which I replied, through gagging laughter, “I MADE IT!”
Heavens to Betsy. We’re struggling over here. He felt just awful about the Aldi comment, but honestly, it was pretty hilarious. That I can laugh about it must, to some degree, admit a shred of truth.
Just a shred…