I went to my local coffee shop this afternoon to get my pick-me-up all by myself. My favorite barista was sound asleep, recovering from a late at night, far away soccer match. The girl behind the counter asked my preference.
Me: A small coffee cooler with a scoop of chips, please.
She: (looking perplexed) Um, you want potato chips in your coffee?
Me: No, dear, espresso chips, just a scoop...
She: Oh good, I'm not sure we have potato chips.
Duh.
Katie: Gracie and I are going to play babies down in the basement.
Me: OK, sounds like a great idea.
Katie: Can we take Kara and pretend she's a doll?
It's Father's Day. I'm a big fan of holidays and holy days. I love to make a fuss. But I am going to admit, this one slipped off my RADAR screen--the victim of being between the infamous weekend and the trip to Denver. I've had a wicked sinus infection all week and I've been bumbling about trying to get ready to go again. "Daddy" was around a bit this week, getting into trouble playing with the kids, but it didn't hit me until late yesterday, as we were driving to the airport, that he was leaving town and would miss Father's Day here on the east coast. I'm a bad mommy. We should have celebrated yesterday. Maybe we'll move it to Tuesday.
For now, the best I can do is lock myself in his office and call California so we can start the day with a long phone call. I'll tell him how much I love him and how I know of no other man on earth as dedicated to his children. I'll probably cry because it will hit me that he's alone in a hotel room on Father's Day and that just doesn't seem fair when you've worked so hard as the father of eight kids. And then I'll feel really badly for neglecting to tuck some special reminder into his suitcase. Finally, I'll tell him to log on because someone in this house didn't forget.
This morning, I discovered that the Clarkson family of my favorite, most inspirational homeschooling book ever, Educating the WholeHearted Child, has a quiver-full of blogs. Looks like they are under construction but if enough of us leave comments, maybe they'll be inspired to get up and running. And it looks like Sally has another blog here, where she's got a few posts to wet our whistle.
It has been noted before that the games played in and around my house are of the over-the-top competitive variety. When my husband enters the fray, and he and the children play a game of family soccer or family basketball, it's a no-holds-barred proposition. Those famous Kennedy games have nothing on us. But this morning was one for the books. As in "Book 'im!"
I had just put the baby to sleep when I heard the doorbell ring. I found this very irritating because it had taken me forever to get the baby to sleep because Mike and the kids were outside playing basketball and I could hear their wailing and moaning and screaming cheering and encouraging through the front windows. Patrick, in particular, was going on and on about someone's shooting ability or lack of it.
As I went to the door, my heart leapt to see a sheriff's deputy through the front window. Outside, were four police cars. The tree was in the way and I could only see two of my children. My head raced as I thought about streets and basketballs and cars. I opened the door.
"Ma'am, are you okay?"
"Except for the fact that you're scaring me, I'm fine."
"Is there anyone else in the house?"
"A sleeping baby--everyone else is out here." I could see my husband now, punching buttons on his Treo. Good grief, must he check his email now? Doesn't he even notice the heavy presence of law enforcement?
"Ma'am, we got a 9-1-1 call from this location. A child was screaming in the background and we heard him say something about a shotgun."
"Um, no, not from here. I'm the only one in here and the baby was with me."
" The call was from your husband's cell phone."
There he was, standing there holding the Treo, grinning at me a bit sheepishly.
And there was a flash of insight.
"Officer, I think maybe the phone got bumped and it dialed while they were playing and you heard my son yelling about a shot. A missed shot (I made a basketball shooting motion with my hands). In basketball."
And now I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, exactly what it sounds like to the rest of the world when my family plays a friendly game of basketball.
I'm Elizabeth. I'm a happy wife and the mother of nine children. I grab grace with both hands and write to encourage myself and others to seize and nurture the joy of every day. I blog here with my daughter, Mary Beth, a wholehearted young lady on the brink of adulthood.
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