A day in the life

Yesterday morning started off with me being awaken by my alarm at 5:30 a.m. I had volunteered to phone the teenage boy to make sure he was awake. What makes a mom do this? Guilt, insanity or love as one of my twitter friends commented. I believe it is a combination of all three. Luckily though, I was able to go back to sleep whereas the teenage boy was starting his long, very long trip home for spring break.

After the teenage boy was awaken, he called for a taxi which would take him to the first bus station in Sherbrooke, Quebec. From there he would be go to Montreal, a two and a half hour ride through the Eastern Townships. Once in Montreal, he hopped on the subway to go to the next bus station, where he caught the Megabus. This bus takes him to Toronto with a stop in Kingston and can be anywhere from six to eight hours depending on traffic. Yesterday there was traffic once the bus arrived in Toronto. He did eventually arrive where the subway is not easy to locate, and taxis are nowhere, so he walked for about a half hour in the brittle cold to the last bus station. He was now only an hour away from home, and the eldest was picking him up so he wouldn’t have to catch another bus. All in all, it took him almost 14 hours to get home. Normally hubby and I would have driven to Lennoxville, Quebec to pick him and his sister (middle child) plus her dog up, but she decided to stay for break. When we do drive, it is not always faster in a car. Last time there was an accident on the highway, so in total it was a twelve-hour drive.

Once the teenage boy was home, the eldest was leaving for the weekend. Since dad was still at work, she decided to drive the van and leave it at the bus station for him. Her bus was at eight, he finished work at eight, so this was a good plan, so we thought. What happened? Well:

Text from DD: “Dad didn’t bring his car keys.”
Me: “Expletive”
DD: “He’s a tool, lol”
Me: “What can I do?”
DD: “Nothing” “I asked the bus driver to give me one minute to run to the van so I can put the key in the door for dad”
Me: “Thank God”
DD: “Driver was funny” “He’s like that took 1:03 minutes” “I said I’d be a minute”
Bus driver: “We were just discussing how to divide your bag up”
Another passenger: “I was hoping there was food”
DD: “I’m like sorry no food”
Me: “Lmao!”
DD: “And them I told the driver my pants wouldn’t fit him anyways”
Me: “I’m cracking up” Laughing so hard, I’m crying
DD: “Ahaha”
Me: “Priceless” “So you gave dad your spare key”
DD: “ya, he’s got the spare key” “I left it in the door”
Me: “Great, I hope no one steals the van”
DD: “No dad was running to the van, and he was there less than 30 secs after me”
Me: “okay, thanks for the laugh”
DD: “lol, I’m still out of breath”
Me: “It was only 1.03 minutes”
DD” “Funny, lol. A minute of sprinting”

Dad arrives home, and I am still laughing. He too is also laughing, realizing he looked like a fool running in his work boots, arms a flailing. Now if the eldest wasn’t able to leave the key for hubby, he would have had to walk up the escarpment to home and then back down again, which would have taken him an hour.

That was our day, how was yours?

I thought he would remember her, I was wrong.

A picture of the children walking the dogMy mother died young, she was 63 years old. She was an amazing Grandmother. The eldest was in grade eight when she died, just before her grade eight graduation (my dad, also an amazing Grandfather passed away just before the eldest graduated from grade 12). Middle child was in grade five and the teenage boy was in grade three when my mom died.

My husband has always worked shift work, so when the kids were young my mom pitched in and helped me. She babysat on a moments notice, drove kids to school when I worked, had a stash of toys and videos at her house just for her grandchildren. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for them.

In the summer when the kids all played soccer, she regularly drove the teenage boy to his soccer practice since I was with middle child who always had a game that same evening. My mom always took the same route to soccer and my son had this route memorized. Some time after my mother passed away I would take the soccer route, and the teenage boy would always say, this is the way grandma took me to soccer, he repeated this for a number of years. Then it stopped. Grandma had slipped from his mind. He no longer remembered the soccer route. I try to bring those memories back to him, but they are gone. Gone like my mom, his grandmother.

Time heals for the young, because memories fade. As I type this, the tears roll down my face, I miss my mom, their grandmother. (As I turned to wipe my tears, I see the calendar, it will be her birthday in exactly one month).

Why I hate underwear/panties

Every Saturday morning I start laundry, and every Saturday I curse and swear not because I dislike doing laundry but because I hate underwear! Years ago, it used to be fine, I would sort the clothes, whites, colours, dark’s, and kids. This was an easy task when the they were young , the teenage boy had tiny boy’s underwear, usually the kind where the flap was an imaginary flap. The girl’s underwear was easy too, one would have solid coloured underwear, and the other stripes/stars, any kind of pattern. Then they grew up.

After sorting, and washing, came folding, (well I don’t actually fold the underwear), I would just toss it in the right pile of clothes. Eventually with the girl’s underwear, after getting yelled at for mixing up their underwear because they now had similar ones, I gave up. I would make one pile for the girls and tell them to sort it out.

When the boy grew up, his underwear also became a problem, gone was the imaginary flap. The teenage boy and dad now had similar underwear, with the exception of size and I thought I could handle it, apparently not though. After my husband had tried to fit his package in a pair of the teenage boy’s underwear in the early morning hours, when it was still dark out, and they didn’t fit, he was not impressed because the next pair didn’t fit either. Then the teenage boy yelled at me because he had dad’s underwear which were too large. Finally, I acquiesced, their underwear is one big pile and they can now sort it out too.

Which is why I hate underwear! Socks are a whole other issue.