Wednesday, October 12, 2011

My Day

I'm going to tell you alllll about my day.  You can thank me later.

First, some insights:  I don't like this packing business.  Nope, not at all.  And I've come to the conclusion that we have too much STUFF.  Mostly Peter has too much stuff.  My stuff is cool.  He called me a book whore earlier today, but after packing four boxes of HIS books, let the record show I think the pot is calling the kettle black.

I maybe over=scheduled my day just a bit.  I was a little high on my Supermom skills and forgot to figure in stupid drivers.  I had a dr's appt for Scotlyn in Covington, followed by a cross country meet in Hammond for Pierson at the exact same time that I was supposed to drop Ainsley off for dance in Franklinton, which is 40 miles away.  Then we had Awanas, also in Franklinton.  I was rescued by my friend Lori, who kept Ainsley for the afternoon (vacay from Ainie!!!) and took her to dance, so that freed me for everything else.

After the dr appt in which I was told there is no cure for having a teenager, we headed to Hammond on I12.  I12 is a bad bad place, in case you ain't from these here parts. It has Louisiana drivers on it.  We passed a wreck that had already happened.  It was cleared off the road, and traffic was flowing through.  We were completely clear of it by several hundred yards, when the idgit two cars in front must have gotten a wild hair to rubber neck around and take a lookie-loo.  He/she/it came to a full and complete stop from 60 mph.  Car two missed them by inches, and I (car three) missed car two by a foot.  I didn't realize how bad it could have been until I saw cars four and five slide past me - sideways - in the median.  Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw three more cars skidded at various angles behind me.  I've been hankering for a new VW Jetta, but this is not the way I want to get it.  And this crazy person in the blue car number one was still sitting there, completely stopped.  If only I'd had a gun...

At the cross country meet, Pierson's coach heard me saying that he'd fun a 28 minute 5k.  I'm not sure how she overheard me, except maybe how I told everyone.  She gave him the hairy eyeball and then a little peptalk about how if he can run three miles in 28 minutes, he can run his one mile quicker than 8 minutes.  For crying out loud, he lopes through the race like a giraffe out for a Sunday stroll.  When it came time for his race, he was told to run the first 1/2 mile at normal pace, then really give it his all in the second half.  She actually expected him to break into a sweat today. 

Well, my boy beat his own personal record by 47 seconds and won a medal.  And then he came *this close* to puking himself.  Now he knows what it means to leave it all on the field, and I don't think he's impressed.  *singing* My boy has a medal, my boy has a medal....

Left the race and headed to church.  Construction. Dead stand still on the interstate.  My life bites. Finally it started moving again and my life quit biting as much.  I made it to church, dragged myself up the stairs, yelled at kids to say their verses on patience and fruits of the spirit, picked Ainie up from dance, got milk, came home.

Good night.

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