My guy gets up for work at about 3 am. Normally I laze about in bed for another hour or so, but this morning I swear I heard him call me from downstairs about ten minutes after he headed out. It was so distinct that I got up, put my robe on, and went to see if the car wouldn’t start, or if he forgot where he put his wallet again or something. I flicked on the hall light and there was nothing. I got dressed and came downstairs, and he honestly wasn’t here. I would swear that he called up to me, as he has done several times in the past when the morning routine has not gone according to plan.
It gave me the willies, folks.
I stayed up. Who can sleep after that? He hasn’t called me on the phone, but neither has his work, and they would if he didn’t show up. Long story short, the night manager is a very close friend of ours who would definitely let me know if there was reason for concern. In fact, I do believe that night manager is my guy’s emergency contact for the sole reason of breaking bad news to me gently in a worst case scenario.
And yet, I am eagerly waiting for my regular morning phone call on my man’s first break. It’s normally before 6 am, and I just want him to laugh at me for being silly.
So, I figured I’d fire up the old distraction machine and chat at you while I wait.
The weather was wet and woolly around here this week. We got a nor’easter. Now, many people think a nor’easter is a snowstorm that hits the northeast. The name actually refers to the way the storm spins. What happens is that when conditions are right, a storm will race up the eastern coast, get north of us into Maine and Canada, then hit the jet stream in a way that makes the storm curl back to the west. The abrupt collision of fronts in just the right place starts the storm spinning, and the winds blow from the northeast back down on us, hence the name, nor’easter. Now, often these storms DO mean snow, because they tend to happen when the northern winds are very cold. But sometimes, they just mean a shit ton of rain.
Fun fact: Had this particular storm fallen as snow, we would have gotten between 40-50 INCHES of the White Nasty. Personally, I’m glad for the rain.
Bet you didn’t think you’d get a meteorological lesson this morning, did you?
Now the storm’s gone, it’s a lot cooler than it’s been, and all the pretty leaves are plastered to the muddy ground. Barren branches stick up from brown, dank earth, and it’s abundantly clear that winter is right around the corner. Yippee. Whoohoo. Can’t wait.
I put plastic up over the windows. I envy those of you who are not familiar with the joys of plasticizing windows. You stick double sided tape around a window, press on the shrinkable plastic sheets that never want to go on straight, and then use a hair dryer or space heater to make the plastic shrink until it’s taut. It keeps out cold drafts that you get from old windows that really should have been replaced years ago, and, more importantly, keeps the very expensive heat IN.
I put a bunch of it up and made a bizarre discovery. My cat likes to lick it. She was sitting on the back of the couch, just licking the plastic. She saw me looking. Instead of having the good grace to become embarrassed at the realization that she was just caught out in a very awkward situation, she quirked an eyebrow defiantly and licked it again. What an odd little creature.
Speaking of odd creatures, my 16-year-old is having his new girlfriend over today to meet us all. He’s been seeing her only a very short time, but they’ve been friends for awhile. I asked him if he was sure he wanted to bring her into the house of insanity this early in their relationship. He seems to think if I make the 8-year-old wear pants, everything will be fine.
Aw, how precious!
I promised to embarrass him. He’s incredibly hard to embarrass, and it’s kind of a “thing” around here to see if we can find something, ANYthing that makes him blush. He’s got to be one of the most unflappable kids ever. I asked him if he really thought we wouldn’t seize on this visit to make him turn red. I promised to drag out some embarrassing stories, and told him one of them to prove the caliber, the quality of embarrassment. We’re talking nukes here, people.
“Bethie, that’s awful!”
Relax. I’m not really going to do it. I just like screwing with him. I fully intend to cast him some knowing glances when his girl isn’t looking and keep him on the edge of his seat all day, though. You know, like any GOOD parent.
Besides, you only pull out the nuclear memories in dire situations. If I play that card this early in his life, I won’t have anything left to tell his future children when he pisses me off. Gotta keep something in reserve.
His future kids. His FAR in the future kids. The ones he’s going to have in his 30s. At the earliest. Right?
Sixteen with a girl he’s gaga over. *sigh* It had to happen to one of them eventually. We had to have a talk with him.
I’ve never, ever had trouble talking to the boys about bodies and sex stuff before. They went through a phase when my guy worked nights and would leave after dinner where they’d watch and wait until his car pulled out of the drive before turning to me and asking me questions they thought would embarrass me.
(…see? Turn about is fair play.)
Anyway, I’m firmly of the mind that it’s much better just to answer the question honestly than let them get horribly wrong information from their friends.
That was before, though. That was all about “some day”. That wasn’t staring at a kid who’s suddenly as tall as us with mutton chops and a mustache and the glazed look of infatuation in his eyes. For all of you with younger kids out there…this WILL happen. Your talks about the far off “some day” facts will suddenly be about very real possibilities, and when that happens, it will hit you like a ton of bricks.
Top tip: The liquor store sells buckets of margarita mix. You just dump in a fifth of tequila, give the tub a shake, then go to town. It even has a spout for pouring right from the fridge, like the classy box wines. I found it takes a good three, four glasses before you don’t care that you just begged your kid not to make you a grandmother at 36.
The more you know.
I was a young mother. I was twenty when I had the boy/*sniff*young man in question. Certainly there are many who have had babies younger than that, but I was also kind of a really sheltered person on some levels. I don’t regret it. I love having teenagers while I’m still young enough to get their interests and share many of them, instead of having to pretend to understand their generation. They crack me up every single day, and I really don’t think I’m fooling myself when I say we get along.
However, having them young wasn’t easy. Shit, it’s still not. There are *still* times when I don’t feel any more grown up and in charge of the situation than they do. A kid says, “Mum?” and there are moments where I still say, “Oh crap, that’s me, isn’t it?”
I don’t regret it. And I like where I am now, so I wouldn’t even go back and change it if I could. I don’t like to play that mental game.
I guess I just want them to have the option to be young and carefree in their early twenties, to be cocky single guys who have spare money to blow on a ridiculous car they have to limp along with blind hope and unreturned devotion, to party with their friends, to maybe move around and explore the world if they want to instead of having to budget diapers and pediatrician co-pays into the monthly bills.
Wow. The teenager in question just came out of his room, fully dressed and rarin’ to go already, asking what part of the house he should clean first. Maybe I should let him have his girlfriend over more often, eh?
Oooh thought… How far do you think I can push it? Think I can get him to wash the windows? I mean, come on. Does he want his woman’s respect or not?
Perhaps today will turn out better than I thought after all.
Thus concludes the Morning Musing for Saturday, October 25, 2014. I got a call just as I was wrapping this up, and all is well. My case of the willies hasn’t fully abated, though. I mean, what the hell was that? Hm….