Happy Father's Day

Father's Day is coming, and that means another family event. Shoot me. Please? Not for Hubby and my kids, we've got that covered. Let me rephrase: I’ve got that covered. And no, there will be no tie nor macaroni art involved either. No offense for those who like that.

No, there was to be a family barbeque for everyone at the in-law’s place on Sunday. Yay! Wait! Everyone? Even the dreaded sisters-in law? Yes. Well, to get the cousins for The Girl and The Boy, I must deal with the sisters-in-law. If I must. Okay, we’re set.

No. The sisters-in-law planned everything then changed it. They can’t do it Sunday, so it has to be Saturday. We can’t do it Saturday, The Girl has a birthday party she’s planned to attend since school ended and The Boy has . . . something, I can’t recall what. Some mischief I’ve blocked for sanity reasons I’m sure. Both are in the afternoon. My morning and early afternoon is spoken for and can’t be moved.

They huffed. It reminded me of the wolf and the three little pigs and I very nearly told them so. I had a brief daydream about rewriting the story of the three little pigs as a young adult novel before my true calling as an erotic romance writer took over and it got very odd. I’ll refrain from going further on that. And I won’t write it. Promise.

Father’s Day is going to be a great deal more peaceful now. Father-in-law will spend Saturday with his daughters and some grandchildren and Sunday with us. Oddly, The Boy and The Girl are absolutely perfect for their grandparents. All the terror The Boy reins down on us at home, is somehow hidden away and he’s unrecognizable if the in-laws are around. I want to move in with them. He’s even nice to his sister. She, of course, waits until Grandma and Grandpa aren’t looking and gets even for all the hell he puts her through in the past week. Hubby gets to watch. Happy Father's Day. 

The Boy is going to die.

The Boy is going to die. Okay, I had to just get that out there. I think every parent of a teenager feels this way at some point, except perhaps Mr. & Mrs. Patience a couple doors down. I don't know what their problem is. They garden as a hobby. Maybe I should take a closer look and see if they’re growing something herbal, if you know what I mean. No, The HOA wouldn’t stand for it. Them growing, not me spying.

Anyway, Hubby and I attacked The Boy’s room while he was at school last week. Don’t ask what prompted it. Just don’t. It was a somewhat frightening endeavor. There were vacuums, garbage bags, laundry bags (notice the plurality on these items?), a Little Green Machine, and swearing (English, German, and Spanish).

Here’s how it went: We went to The Boy’s room and Hubby got a little carried away with the cleaning. This happens. “Let’s do a quick contraband check” for candy, markers, food, markers, anything of his sister’s, markers, sharp objects, markers, etc. You may have noticed an obsession with markers. The Boy has had some issues with Sharpies. He’s used them to redecorate many things, a habit we’d like to stop.

To continue . . . I’m vacuuming. Happily. Okay, with the occasional glare at Hubby who’s rifling through The Boy’s closet and gleefully counting the number of ways this child is in trouble. All’s well. Hubby points to a small spot on the floor, where the teen in question dumped a bunch of pennies we’d already picked up, and I vacuumed it. Still there. I vacuumed again, still there. Fine. I pulled out the Little Green Machine per Hubby’s nagging and I sat down to make myself comfortable for a round of stain removal.

Here’s where the swearing started. That small darkish spot that I would have missed, only Hubby’s hawk-eyes saw on our neutral-beige carpet, went on my first pass of the Green Machine from smaller than a penny and slightly darker beige to the size of my palm and bright teal. For those who are interested, the explicatives were in English first, they were loud, and I didn’t need to warm up. Hubby’s head popped out of the closet, probably assuming I’d hurt myself.

“Oh, I saw some empty Fun Dip wrappers over there. I should have warned you.”

“You let me get this wet when you knew it could be Kool Aid powder? Are you frakking serious?” (Yes, I edited that.)

“Sorry.”

So, I spent the rest of the day working on that stain. My swearing reverted to German directed at Hubby, who doesn’t speak German. (Honestly, neither do I anymore but apparently I still swear in it when mad enough.) He swore back in Spanish, which didn’t do much good because I barely speak Spanish.

Then The Boy came home. We own him.