“Who invented homework? I want them dead.”
That was my text to my college age child the other night.
Her response back, “Who ever is trying to ruin my life right now.” It was 11:00 pm and she was still studying.
I had been studying science all afternoon, well actually my 8th grader had…no, back to my original statement, I had been studying science all afternoon.
I do not like homework. I’m pretty sure I didn’t when I was in school and I’m positive I don’t now. With that being said, how is it that over the years I have done more studying than I did when I was in school? I told the 8th grader who lives in my house, “I’ve already done my time. Now it’s your turn. Homework is a cruel right of passage, suck it up. I survived it and so will you…though it’s not looking so good for you at the moment.”
We love to tell stories in our family. Not the “lie” kind of stories - though we do have issues there. The stories I’m talking about are more like the retelling of something that happened kind of stories. Some of us are so good at it that we can take a mediocre event and turn it into a jaw-dropping story to end all stories. In fact, if you were to be present at the event and then at the retelling of the event, you might not even recognize it.
To say we exaggerate is somewhat of an understatement. And no, we do not consider exaggerating to be lying. The thought is this; if you’re going to make people listen to your story, at least make it worth their while.
I love telling stories, except for the ones that are less flattering.
It’s been a quiet afternoon; something I’m not used to. Normally on Saturdays, especially during football season, the house is noisy. I like noise. I like a full house with a lot of activity. I guess it’s been that way for so long that I don’t know what to do with the quiet.
I suggested to Hunter, the dog, that we go for a walk. She lifted her head up, looked at me for a second, and put it right back down. “Yeah, I didn’t really want to walk either,” I told her. Listen, when I resort to exercise, things are getting bad…really bad.
Years ago, I remember my Dad calling to make sure the kids and I had arrived safely home after a visit. He commented about how quiet the house was after we drove off. I remember him saying that the silence was so very loud.
Well. I was going to go to bed early tonight but instead I am up praying for the safe arrival of a new little life. I am about to explode with excitement. My first grandchild…sort of. Actually, the soon to be father is not my flesh and blood, but he’s close. I have known him all his life. I’ve changed his diapers. In fact, he is the whole reason I wanted to have children.
His mom and dad lived across the street from us when he was born. When he could barely pull himself up and stand he would crawl to the front door of the house and wait for me to come outside in the mornings. Every morning when I would go to get in my car, there he would be - standing at the front door, grinning and waving. Morning after morning he would be there. He was so stinking cute that all I could think was, “I want one of those.”
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