So, last week had a little bit of everything on the Good-to-Bad-O-Meter.
The Young Prince was off school Monday and Tuesday for conferences/workdays. He came into the office with me and for the first time in probably ever we had completely uneventful and quiet time together. He read, occasionally sharing something interesting he found, I worked, occasionally sharing something absurd I found. We had lunch. It was nice. No fights, no tension about what would happen when he got bored, no bracing to argue about whether the door should be open or the lights on, or anything. Just two really great days and I missed him when he went back to class.
Tuesday night, we met with his teachers (one is his "real" teacher, for math, science, social studies, etc., and the other is solely for reading and writing). "Real" teacher said he's doing fine, they're having a blast, he seems to be fitting in well, only a few small quirks that they worked out quickly. But then I think we convinced the writing teacher that we are the most heartless people alive, because she was telling us about his writing assignments, and she starts in with, "I think he has a little trouble narrowing down his ideas. I mean, here, he wrote three pages of things that happened to him, and then on the last page he finally got to the point of why his day was important: his grandmother died." Since one grandmother is still alive and the other died several years ago (without, I might add, seeming to make a big impression on the kid), Not Your Average Blogger and I both went from surprised to baffled to busting out laughing in about 10 seconds.
And boy, was the story a doozy. It was called "The Twisted Day," and it wove together several poorly remembered and richly embellished family anecdotes, starting the morning with a bat getting in the house (which did happen, but at night, when the kid was in bed,) progressing through reading five of the Harry Potter books, meandering into NYAB wielding a butcher knife when answering the door (didn't happen) and on through a call from a relative about the death of NYAB's father (fairly accurate), whose death so distressed NYAB's mother that she committed suicide (completely false). We assured the writing teacher that we'd work on form and structure, and then went to pick the kid up from his swim lesson, where my conversation with him proceeded as follows.
"Hey, how did Grandma B die?"
"I don't know .... oh. I know why you're asking. I didn't remember, so I just wrote what I thought."
"I see."
"Are you mad?"
"Yes. But not because of that. Do you want to know why?"
"Because of my spelling?"
"No, because when you wrote about the bat getting in the house, you have me hiding in the bathroom like some useless chicken. That did NOT happen."
"That's the only thing you're mad about?"
"Yup."
"Wow. OK!"
Because things were going so well with the YP, it only figures that something would go awry elsewhere. This week, it was the dog. I don't know if she got bored or anxious or spiteful or what, but the same night as the conference, she chowed down on a throw rug in the kitchen. I came down Wednesday morning to several piles of barfed-up string, spit, and dog food. After cleaning it up, I put her outside, but didn't think to tell NYAB to leave her out there. When the YP got home from school that day, he called me in high dudgeon that the poor dog had left several messes of various types from the kitchen to the living room. (Fortunately, it's all lineoleum and wood in there, for pretty much this exact reason.) I told him to clean it up, and he called me back about a half-hour later to tell me he was done and I owed him. Fair enough.
I got home, and the dog was back outside, fairly chipper and happy to see me, although she hadn't eaten her food. I patted her and went inside. About an hour later, NYAB got home, came in, and informed me that I "needed to look at the dog." I go out and find that what string she had not barfed up had made its way to the other end, trailing behind her like a second tail. Well, there wasn't anything for it but to wrap my hand in paper towels and go to it. So I pulled. And pulled. And pulled.
NYAB: "It's like a magic trick."
Me: "Uh, maybe, if it's a really rancid magic trick. Jesus, what kind of nasty magicians were you exposed to as a kid?"
Seriously, there was probably 10 feet of material in there. Once it was out, the dog was fine, ate hearty, bounced around as hyper as ever. Fortuitously, we had a vet appointment the following Saturday anyway, and the doctor verified the dog is fine and laughed when I referred to it as a Carpet Cleanse.
Thursday and Friday were crazy long days at work, but Friday night I rebelled and we went to see Thor at the new local theater -- which is my new favorite theater because (why else?) Mr. Pibb is one of the drink options. Thor was as good as expected, and I am afraid it says something terrible about me that Loki is my favorite character.
Saturday and Sunday were also full of various kinds of work. After the vet, I took the dog to a self-serve bathing place, which was actually pretty cool. Waist-high tubs, shampoo and towels provided, and these great drain strainers that catch the hair (and that I had to empty three times with my sheddy monster.) While I was gone, I got a text from NYAB asking if the kid was with me. Turns out the kid hid from him as a joke figuring that I would come up and figure it out, and was mortified when NYAB freaked out. This was followed up with a piano lesson, shopping, and then working til 3 a.m.; next day was more work til 2 p.m. and yard work til dark. But the projects are done, the leaves are disposed of (mostly) and even though I had to work today, the boys got the garage clean and the laundry done.
Now all I need is a day of rest... maybe next weekend.
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