But I'm stuck here. Not at the reunion.
But why? you ask. Haven't I warned you about this before? Must we do this every time? You have been warned.
Because I am the victim of extremely poor planning. My own, unfortunately.
Ha! You thought you got away easy that time, no? Think again, bucko.
Here's how it all went down:
I will occasionally admit to being in the Young Women's organization in my ward. I usually phrase it as "Serving with the YW." I try not to name the actual calling I have. Not that I'm ashamed of it or anything--I just hate the disbelief that creeps into people's eyes when I tell them I'm the president (small "p", please). I understand--I am not the stereotypical YW president. I'm not hyper-organized; I don't cross-stitch, embroider or crochet; and the depths of my wisdom couldn't swamp a paper boat. But for some reason I said yes when the bishop asked me to do it--and in my defense I love serving with the young women. I think they and the other leaders are amazing, and they reciprocate with a tolerance that surpasses belief.
So, knowing these fact about me, you can hardly be surprised that I accidentally scheduled the YW fundraiser for the same weekend as my family reunion. My thinking was somewhat along the lines of: Hey, look, the only free weekend ALL the young women have is the weekend of the 23rd! And we can actually use the church cultural hall for it! Whoo-Hoo! It is a miracle!! The gods of all planning and organizing endeavors smile upon me!!! How perfect is this? . . . What? (slowly coming to reality after the initial burst of adrenaline-powered euphoria and AFTER setting the whole thing in stone by announcing it to the entire world who was willing to listen--total count: six young women, their moms, and one lone pigeon who flew in for the refreshments.) That's Memorial Day weekend? That's the weekend of the family reunion? Why, oh all that is holy, why?
And so I sit in an almost quiet house--if you don't count the frantic and poorly-timed barking of Tibby the wonder-weirdo. And if you don't count Anders, who is actually cooperating at the moment by taking an extremely well-timed nap. (small, hushed whoo-hoo! for naps!)
I've decided that if I can't enjoy the family reunion, I'll at least enjoy the spirit of the reunion: the absolute thrill we Merkleys get out of the completely useless. I've watched old TV shows on the computer, stashed stuff for Christmas (find THAT, kiddos!), and torn out all the irritating and extraneous slips of advertising cardstock that my magazines are infested with. But mostly what I've done is watch Anders enjoy his day.
I've never had this chance before. Our first son was born with extreme developmental difficulties, and never reached this stage, and his care sort of took up all our extra attention. I loved my older children as babies, I just didn't get to stare at them all day with no distractions. So this is what it's like. Kind of fascinating, and kind of boring, with moments of sheer panic when an inquisitive baby takes a fancy to things like electrical outlets and cords.
So, after a good chunk of the day watching a baby's explorations, I can make one certain announcement:
my son is crazy for dryer lint.
(Explanatory note: our laundry room opens onto our kitchen, with only a doorway separating them. And we don't have a gate there, because the only gate is blocking the stairs--a much bigger baby booby trap, in my opinion, and because I go between the two rooms so frequently. I'm getting older and lazier about such things. The dryer lint in question has been removed from the dryer--obviously. Not even Anders, who will probably grow up to be a problem-solving genius, in a weird mad-scientist sort of way, if his older brothers are any indication, can get it out of its original location at only seven months of age! It--the lint, not the baby--is tossed after removal into a wastebasket which has been inexplicably placed above head level. Trust me, I've tried to explicate it, but alas, no success. Sometimes my tossing of lint into the designated receptacle is ineffective--no basketball scholarship for me!--and the lint falls to its doom among the brooms and mops, from which doom I rarely rescue it. I believe I've already explained the older/lazier component of my existence.)
Anders, in his wanderings about the house, has discovered that lying among all those amazing cleaning tools are golden nuggets of fuzzy goodness. Yum! He can find them, retrieve them , and pop them into his mouth faster than I can rush to his aid while simultaneously fighting a monster gag reflex. I have cleaned out his mouth three time already today--and those are the times I was aware of what he was doing! Who knows how many good-and-lintys line his stomach after the craziness that was this morning's packing and car-stuffing preparation. Please, don't think about it; it will only cause you pain, and maybe a small bout of empathetic vomiting.
So recap of my day:
Not at reunion
Rotten calendar-reading skills
Anders likes lint
Sometimes it's good to be the mom.
(Explanatory note: our laundry room opens onto our kitchen, with only a doorway separating them. And we don't have a gate there, because the only gate is blocking the stairs--a much bigger baby booby trap, in my opinion, and because I go between the two rooms so frequently. I'm getting older and lazier about such things. The dryer lint in question has been removed from the dryer--obviously. Not even Anders, who will probably grow up to be a problem-solving genius, in a weird mad-scientist sort of way, if his older brothers are any indication, can get it out of its original location at only seven months of age! It--the lint, not the baby--is tossed after removal into a wastebasket which has been inexplicably placed above head level. Trust me, I've tried to explicate it, but alas, no success. Sometimes my tossing of lint into the designated receptacle is ineffective--no basketball scholarship for me!--and the lint falls to its doom among the brooms and mops, from which doom I rarely rescue it. I believe I've already explained the older/lazier component of my existence.)
Anders, in his wanderings about the house, has discovered that lying among all those amazing cleaning tools are golden nuggets of fuzzy goodness. Yum! He can find them, retrieve them , and pop them into his mouth faster than I can rush to his aid while simultaneously fighting a monster gag reflex. I have cleaned out his mouth three time already today--and those are the times I was aware of what he was doing! Who knows how many good-and-lintys line his stomach after the craziness that was this morning's packing and car-stuffing preparation. Please, don't think about it; it will only cause you pain, and maybe a small bout of empathetic vomiting.
So recap of my day:
Not at reunion
Rotten calendar-reading skills
Anders likes lint
Sometimes it's good to be the mom.
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