There are two more days of school and they will kill us.  I left to attend Tess’ End Of Year! Celebration! with these instructions to the boys: don’t let the dogs out because they just sprayed for spiders and study for your exams.  Two hours later I arrived home to find the dogs outside and the boys sleeping.  Peter turned in all his textbooks and study guides today, staring at me blankly when I asked how he’s going to study.  He’s now doing quizlets on his phone.  Online quizzes produced by his peers and proctored by absolutely no adults.  This is a fool proof study plan and he is killing it.

I made possibly the best pasta I’ve ever made tonight.  The sauce was simply browned butter with garlic and salt and poured over al dente pasta and cruciferous vegetables.  Three people hated the broccoli.  One cried over the cauliflower.  Two spent the better part of an hour separating out every single pea.  I ordered them to work together to do the dishes, which took all of four minutes because there are six of them and we ate on paper plates.  I just found all the dishes in the sink, which means they think doing the dishes means clearing the table.  I want to eat chocolate and hit stuff.

Tess had a wart frozen off her foot this morning.  I have a three and a half hour dentist appointment tomorrow morning to have crowns put on two molars.  I’m skipping it and spending the money on recreational drugs.  I had to wash saddle pads yesterday and, even though I spent forty five minutes cleaning the hair out, my shirt smells like horses.  Someone spilled red down the front of the cabinets but no one will fess up or tell me what it is.  One of the Smalls just slammed the door so hard the handle fell off and, even worse, I was glad because at least someone is finally closing a door.  The dogs dug up the sprinkling in one of the beds, again, positive because maybe, just maybe, now I’ll have enough water pressure to get the conditioner out tomorrow morning.

The teacher gifts are ready to go, but every time I sit down to write the cards, I start to cry because these teachers have given everything and they deserve so much more than a gift card to amazon.  They deserve a hundred thousand dollars in a Swiss offshore account in the Bahamas and a kidney.  I give our school crap often on fb, but mostly it’s just aimed toward classroom parties and other ridiculous things.  I really do love that place. It’s filled with the best sorts of people doing beautiful work.  Work that is far harder than we give them credit for.  Anyone who has listened to a child try to read knows this.  Teaching my kids how to read (A-N-D spells and.  Now and forever more.  On every page.  Any time you see the letters A-N and D, it will always spell and.) deserves the whole world and a side of guac.  It is a thing that nearly costs me my salvation and I have two people learning to read.  I can’t.  But they do and I pledge them my allegiance for it.

We need to talk about summer being here and how it’s jamming my son’s feed with bikini pictures of girls I can only assume are orphans because no one is proctoring their posts.  But that’s a talk for another day.  For now there is us, barely keeping our heads above water and still needing to publish book lists and make stuff for tomorrow’s pool party.  All of which we will do, me with an ice pack held to cheek since the family volleyball game we played tonight ended with Dan punting the ball into my face, which only hurt once I stopped laughing so hard I peed my white jeans in the front yard.  Good luck on exams and preparing for them, ‘specially if they’re only using quizlets to prepare.  Solidarity is my offering if you’re saying Good-Bye to a school that has loved and held your babies.  Solidarity and tissues tucked into bra.  Strength if you’re planning to join in forming a tunnel of parents and teachers as our sixth graders run through to the busses for the last time.  I’m always near the end, weeping and yelling, WE LOVE YOU, WE BELIEVE IN YOU, WE ARE HERE FOR YOU!  Two more days.  We do not go gentle into that good night.

this is me being real.


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