Right this moment Sheila would rather be fishing, despite the fact that fishing is about two-million-one-hundred-and-twenty-eight on her bucket list.
Or hanging here.
Or reading a good book.
Or finishing the developmental edits on her upcoming book.
Instead, she’s hanging at the youngest son’s new farm, a paintbrush in one hand, cleanser in the other.
If the painting and cleaning are finished — which they better be! — Sheila will be back in three weeks. Until then, enjoy your summer!
No, this has nothing to do with the weather, although this summer we’re getting our fair share of rain. No, this post is about family and life and how easily serenity erupts into chaos.
For the last few months, I’ve been peacefully writing away, working on 3 upcoming romantic comedies, until last month, when our youngest son injured his back.
Shortly before the injury, he’d made an offer of purchase on a farm with a possession date of August 15, which gave him lots of time to pack and prepare. Then he hurt his back, and while chaos erupted with doctor appointments, etc, we knew he would need extra help moving, painting, repairs, etc. So we set aside the month of August to help him out.
Then my in-laws received a call from a senior’s facility. My father-in-law is 95, my mother-in-law is 86, and since 2012 they have rejected 5 apartments in this facility. With a little extra prodding and pushing, they finally made the decision to move in. It’s a good place. They’ll have round-the-clock assistance if needed, and basically everything else like cooking and housekeeping and laundry is taken care of for them.
I think I want to move there too…
With a possession date of August 1, we started to pack up their household, thankful that they would be settled before our son’s move.
But then my mother got booked in for her knee operation. Date: August 7th. Okay, with good planning, we could have the in-laws moved and settled by then. Except my mother-in-law kept procrastinating about calling the movers. I guess she thought that if she ignored it long enough, they wouldn’t have to move.
Needless to say, by the time I said that I would call the movers, the earliest date I could get was August 7th.
While my husband goes one way that day, I’ll be going another. In the meantime, we’re packing boxes for my in-laws, running my mom to last minute doctor, hair, etc appointments, and helping our son get ready for his move.
That old saying “when it rains, it pours” is true. So this may be my last post until mid-September. I’m just saying, if I’m missing in action, you’ll know where I am.
Now tell me, what fun things do you have planned for your summer holiday/vacation? Please share. I want to hear all about the fun things you all are doing! 🙂
Have you ever had a disagreement with your significant other over the temperature in the house? Whether you’re female or male, the answer is probably yes.
For years, my husband has been after me to install air-conditioning in the house. For years, I’ve resisted because I love to open the windows in the summer and let the natural breeze cool the house.
But last month, I finally gave in, and we now have a monstrosity of a unit outside our back door. And that’s when the temperature wars began…
He Said: (comes home from work, sweaty and hot) “It’s roasting in here. Why isn’t the air-conditioning on?”
She Said: (wearing t-shirt and sweats, and after a day inside, non-sweaty and cool) “It is. Give it a little while and you’ll adjust.”
He Said: (checking the temperature on the thermostat) “What’s the point of having air-conditioning if you’re going to keep it this hot? What a waste of money.”
She Said: (trying to be understanding) “If it’s set any lower, it’s too cold downstairs.”
He Said: “The temperature down there is only 20C (68F). How can that be too cold?”
She Said: (just the tiniest annoyed) “Trust me, it is.”
Ten minutes later, there’s a significant temperature change in the house. Upon checking the thermostat, she discovers the temperature has been lowered.
She Said: (pulling on a sweatshirt) “22 (71F) is too cold.”
He Said: “How can it be too cold? In the winter 22 is warm.”
One hour later, she’s sitting in the downstairs family room reading, covered with a blanket. It’s so cold, she has to get a tissue because her nose is running. She heads upstairs to the dining room where he’s playing Solitaire on his PC…
She Said: (grumpy as all get out) “It’s freezing down there. It’s freezing up here, too. The air-conditioner has been running for a solid hour without stopping.”
He Said: (bundled up in a warm sweater) “How do you know? You can’t hear it inside the house.”
She Said: (seething) “The furnace room is right across from me. I can hear it run and it’s not clicking off.”
He Said: “Not possible.”
She Said: (stomping away, heading back downstairs to the good book she’s reading) “I’m not stupid, you know. Go sit in the family room for a while and you’ll see what I mean. It’s so cold, I’m ready to haul out my winter jacket.”
He Said: (actually, he just ignores her, which pisses her off to no end, and makes her regret installing the stupid air-conditioner)
Finally, she goes outside to warm up, but because it’s still hot enough to fry eggs on the pavement, she’s soon all sweaty. She gives up and heads inside, grabs a second blanket and hauls it downstairs…
Two hours later, he comes down to the family room…
He Said: (hands in pockets, looking smug and righteously right) “It’s nice down here.”
Then he goes back upstairs.
At bedtime, the air-conditioner gets turned off. The windows upstairs stay closed because, you know, you’re not supposed to open the windows when you have air-conditioning.
The residual heat from the day is trapped inside the house and the temperature in the bedroom climbs. Despite the fan above the bed, it keeps getting hotter, until she finally heads outside to cool off…or maybe just cool down.
She Said: “Stupid air-conditioner. Stupid men. One of them has to go.”
Do you have He Said, She Said moments in your household, too? If so, I’d love to hear about them!
You’d think it would stop after the labor pains, or perhaps the teenage years, but I’ve discovered that no matter how old your children are, you always worry about them.
My youngest son’s hobby is restoring heavy duty equipment. Recently, while loading some caterpillar tracks to recycle at the local scrap yard, the tracks shifted and caught his index finger, tearing off the fingernail and a chunk of the end of his finger. And while it has healed nicely, I’ve still not recovered from the incident.
I worry, probably needlessly, but I’m his mother, and all I want is for my boys to be healthy and happy and unhurt.
The hero in my contemporary romance, Always Remember, worries about his daughter, too. The single dad of a 17 year old girl, he’s raised her the best he could, and still…
(Excerpt from Always Remember ~ After getting bucked off his horse, the heroine is giving Nate Coltrane a lower back massage when they’re interrupted by his daughter Sara…)
Along with the sound of her boots tromping across the floor, approaching the entryway, he caught the strain in her voice.
“I—oh, excuse me. I didn’t know you were busy.”
Nate raised his head from his folded arms. “Come on in. Jess was just giving me a massage, trying to fix my sore back.”
Right, and another two minutes, you would have been fixing her.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, Jessie scrambled off him, landed on her rear end, then leapt to her feet. Nate shifted slightly, enough to notice the flush that darkened her cheeks.
“We were finished anyway,” she explained in a breathless rush. “And I was just leaving.”
Right about now, Nate wished he could leave with her. As she ran from the room, the humor of the situation hit him. They’d been caught like two randy teenagers, only it was the daughter, not the parents, terminating their foreplay. Now, how did he go about hiding his aroused state from his perceptive daughter?
“So what’s up, squirt?” Other than me. Nonchalant, pretend like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Like his world hadn’t shifted and tilted for the second time since Jessie’s arrival.
Sara snatched the pile of mail from the coffee table and slid onto the floor beside him. “You didn’t tell me you hurt your back. Diablo? You know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe you need professional help.”
“You mean a shrink?” He reached out and ruffled her hair. Thanks to Jessie, his back did feel better, but now he had another ache he wished she’d stuck around to cure. Suddenly, the floor felt hard and uncomfortable. “Sara, Diablo and I have an agreement.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sometimes I think I should’ve been in charge of you instead of the other way around.” She ducked out from under his hand and looked him square in the eye. “You realize, of course, that what you two were doing in here was totally unacceptable.”
Laughter burst from his chest.
“Well, I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.”
No, she wasn’t a kid. She’d grown into a beautiful young woman, as mature and self-reliant as her mother. How had he gotten so lucky? She’d never given him a lick of trouble, not the way Jessie and him had tested their parents’ patience.
Sara sorted listlessly through the envelopes, tossing the bills aside before spreading her favorite magazine on the floor between them. Nate noted the pallor of her cheeks, the bluish smudges beneath her eyes. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but feared the question would send her running up to her bedroom like last time.
Better that he be patient and wait for her to come to him. When she was ready to talk, she’d do it in her own good time.
He bumped her on the shoulder. “What are you reading?”
(End of excerpt)
So what kind of unfun and worrisome things have your children done? And how long did it take you to recover from the incident?
I haven’t ranted in a while, so I figure I’m due. The other night my family gathered in the den to watch a movie. My son is sixteen and he likes action/suspense movies that are typically rated R and not appropriate for our fourteen-year-old daughter. Case in point, we saw Captain Phillips (rated PG-13) in the theater and she got scared.
After much debate, we found a PG-13 movie about four old men who go to Vegas. The movie seemed innocent enough for her and yet funny enough for him. Everybody was happy—until the movie started playing. Now, bear with me because I want you to imagine watching this with a fourteen-year-old girl. A somewhat naïve, very innocent fourteen-year-old girl. A girl I’d like to remain somewhat naïve and very innocent, at least for a little while longer.
At the beginning of the movie, a happily married man who is not so happy in his retirement is ambivalent about going to Vegas with his old buddies. His wife, sensing something’s off in their marriage, gives him a condom, a little blue pill, and permission to cheat on her in order for him to snap out of it so she can have her husband back. I kid you not. Not only did this probably confuse my daughter about what is and is not appropriate about marriage, but I had to tell my husband that at no time and under no circumstances would that scenario ever come to pass.
So this guy skips though Vegas searching for a young hottie to bed. It’s his entire mission despite the fact that his other friend is getting married that weekend and his friend is marrying the wrong woman. The only thing that matters is finding some booty since his wife has granted him a mulligan. When he finally stumbles across someone drunk enough to take him up on it, he realizes he can’t cheat on his wife, but suggests a blowjob instead. Nice. Very nice.
What is wrong with Hollywood? It was gross enough watching old men slobber after women young enough to be their granddaughters, but to suggest a movie all about sex is appropriate for a PG-13 audience is just sad. I feel sorry for today’s youth because the messages are so confusing and impossible to ignore. Needless to say, I’m done being as innocent and naïve as my daughter. From now on I’ll assume all movies rated PG-13 should be rated R. Or maybe I’ll cross movies off our list of things to do and suggest a board game instead.
Am I overreacting or just watching the wrong kind of movies?