Happy Labor Day weekend to you all! I hope you’re enjoying a last summer hurrah as we conclude this seasonal chapter.
Back in the day, school children would be preparing for their return to the classroom, but here in modern times we already have two full weeks of instruction under our belts.
It’s always a little weird to get those weeks in and then have a long weekend. I suppose it’s a good thing, though, as the first days are an exhausting exercise in getting sleep schedules back on track (you know I allowed my kiddos to sleep until noon all summer – the less time I had to endure bickering the better), learning new teachers’ personalities and getting in some semblance of a routine.
Let me preface the tirade that is forthcoming with a statement: No, I don’t look for things to complain about. These things find me, and I seem rather adept at voicing my displeasure. Honed skill or obnoxious habit? You decide.
The routine for the 2010-2011 school year will be that every single person in my house is on a different schedule. I’m tough and will adapt. However, I swear by Betty Crocker that I’m on the cusp of throwing in the apron when it comes to meals.
How many times has it been pounded in our collective head that family meal times are important? And that all sorts of familial crises can be averted if parents would just sit down and eat at least one meal a day with their children. I try, and I’d love to, but . . . By the time everyone rejoins me at home in the evenings, I don’t want to eat – my body’s screaming, “it’s bedtime!” or I’ve already succumbed to starvation and chewed my arm off while waiting. I’d attempt breakfast if anyone was sociable at that hour.
Since I let the pantry run bare just prior to school starting, I had some massive grocery shopping trips shortly after school started. And this is how the food has been rotating: I drag overflowing carts to my car, load the trunk while sweating profusely and deliver it all home where it’s unloaded and put away. Still sweating. Then, in a labor of love and sweating yet again over a hot stove, I use said groceries to prepare a meal that sits uneaten by at least three-fifths of the family. Since I can’t stand to see it go to waste, I pack it up and move it to the refrigerator. A few days later I’m pushing the remains down the garbage disposal. And while I don’t have violent tendencies, the next person who says, “There’s nothing to eat”, may provide the garbage disposal with something a little more substantial to chew up.
It’s apparent I’m the one who will have to be more flexible. But I must draw the line at performing dinner-time gymnastics. I have upheld my end of the household labor agreement. If folks residing at The Whatley Estate aren’t careful, a strike may be in order. This laborer and her trusty disposal are fed up!
© 2010 Natalie Whatley