|
|
It is very early on Father’s Day. The kids are still sleeping, and so is their daddy.
Tradition mandates that I make huevos rancheros for hubby’s breakfast in bed, served to him by his squabbling, eager fans. Huevos rancheros is not a good food to eat in bed, but we overlook the practicalities in favor of fun. We will give gifts to him and leave him alone with his runny eggs, beans and the Sunday paper.
How we spend our day is up to him. This is my revenge for making me decide what to do on Mother’s Day.
Tonight, we will grill steaks to a safe, sane temperature. Some garlic bread and spinach salad on the side should round out Father’s Day dinner nicely.
If any man deserves to be showered with adoration today, it is hubby. It is a blessing to watch him in-action with the kids. He is a hard-working provider, a source of wisdom and knowledge, a whimsical pal, a backyard chaser, a great role model for the boys, and my best friend. He is usually full of energy, enough to keep up with five small children and another waiting for his or her cue.
He is the brave warrior, they are his arrows. For now, they are riding around on his back squealing and laughing. Eventually he will launch them into the air, letting them go and watching them arc away. His greatest achievement will be seeing them pierce strong and substantial rocks, solid children who will grow to be solid adults with families of their own someday.
“You chose well,” said the inspector to a very-relieved hubby and me. The house is in excellent condition. There are no major problems and very few minor cosmetic issues—mainly cracks in the driveway. The next hurdle is the appraisal.
Our realtor told us as she was putting together our file in anticipation of closing, she noted we looked at 92 houses. Yes, 92. She said it was her personal record. Ours too. We had underestimated by about 30-40—after awhile, every split-level, tri-level, ranch, and two story begins looking like all the others. They are a blur of bad wallpaper, hardwood floors, carpeted ceilings, and Jack-and-Jill bathrooms. We saw into the lives of 92 families. Some of the house were empty, but there was telling evidence of who lived there. Stickers on the closet doors of children’s rooms. Carpet stains, pink, green, and blue. Left-behind swing sets, cheesy bikini posters in garages. One driveway had a silver fork laying in the middle. Another had handwritten signs on closet doors, asking potential buyers to “Make An Offer on Our Clothes!”
Selling a house must be a humbling, nerve-wracking experience. Kind of like buying a house.
Aidan returned from camp yesterday. She had the time of her life—playing in a “river”, making s’mores over the giant campfire, going to bed at 11pm, and learning new songs. I asked what the best part of camp was. She said, very enthusiastically, “bedtime!”
When I asked why, she replied that her cabin had eight bunk beds, and only seven girls. That meant every girl got a coveted top bunk. Every girl was a happy camper.
Another weepy mommy moment occured when the bus pulled up in front of the church. It has to be the hormones. I usually don’t choke back tears at the sight of tour buses. Last night she was a bit weepy and overtired from her jam-packed days and late nights. She said she wants to go back and that some of the kids were wishing the bus would break down so they wouldn’t have to leave.
Summer camp is the closest thing our kids have to the idyllic old-fashioned childhood summer of rope swings, lemonade, nature hikes, roasted hot dogs, bug bites, Calamine, and flashlight light-saber battles. I am so glad she got the experience and the memories that get pulled out of starry skies and s’mores. I can’t blame her for wanting to go back.
|
|
