Bonding... Binding... whatever
We'd been hacking away at the giant science project for weeks: Elder Son reciting his answers to me while I type for him. It was a monumental assignment. He truly did break it down and work on it all quarter and did not leave it for the last minute.
Still, it was Monday night when we printed out the last page of the portfolio that was due Tuesday morning.
"That's it?" I asked.
"That's it!" he declared.
He carefully stapled all the pages, tucked them into his science folder, gave me a hug, and skipped away to play computer games.
Tuesday morning, I sit down to blog something. (Those of you without children should be aware that sitting down at the computer for anything will attract either 1- a child who suddenly wants to play a game, or 2- a child who suddenly needs to do homework, or 3- a child who begs you to read all the new LOL Cats that have been posted in the past three weeks.) So, naturally, the very moment I sit at the computer, Elder Son says, "Oh, Mother, it would be nice to have a title page for that portfolio."
Uh huh. I whip one out.
"Oh," he digs through his papers and draws out a scrap, "this should be on a full sheet of paper instead of this little piece." Seeing my look, he adds, "I can type it up quick."
No, he can't. I've seen him type. Or rather, I've seen him try. So, I throw that together as well.
As he finishes breakfast, he asks, "Do we have any 3-ring binders?"
Do we have any?
Like I could run out and get one at 7:15am if we don't.
It so happens that we *do* have 3-ring binders. In fact, we have an entire box of them because I hoard office supplies, and the box has been clearly labeled and squatting in our garage for the past ten years.
However...
Just this week, The Husband has been going through our ten-year-old pile of garage junk, throwing out crap we've never touched in the past ten years, and rearranging the crap we might look for again in another ten years.
"We have 3-ring binders, dear. But I don't know where they are right now."
"That's okay. I'll leave for school early and get one out of my locker."
"Great."
"But I'll have to punch holes in my report first."
*sigh*
I track down the 3-hole punch (which we thankfully have), he sets to work on making holes, and I set to work washing dishes.
Ten minutes later, there's a frantic squeal on his end of the room.
"What time is it!?! I have to go! We have exams! I can't be late! I won't have time to get a binder, Mother!"
And, you guessed it: "Can you get me a binder? Please?"
I'm sure I could have found a binder just fine the night before... right after printing out that last page.
There might have been a chance of me finding a binder this morning... if I'd have started looking when he first brought it up. (But no, he assured me he had it under control. You heard him, right?)
Now? There's not a freaking chance in the world I'm gonna find a dang binder in the newly rearranged storage heap of a garage we have.
Believe you me, the voices in my head were muttering cuss words even I've never heard before.
And I did something I've never done before and hope never to do ever again.
I grabbed my cell, and I called The Husband at work.
To ask where the friggin' binders are.
As the phone rings, I start pulling neatly stacked boxes off the garage shelves and gawk into their transparent sides to see if I can spot any binders without pawing inside any damn boxes. No luck.
Phone answered. It's not The Husband. "Try this other extension number."
Dial it. Pull more boxes. The Husband doesn't answer the second number. "Try his extension."
*sigh*
!cuss!
Just as I begin ripping lids off boxes, he calls me back. (Because people are now running through the building trying to find him because his wife sounds pretty frantic, right?)
In moments, he describes exactly where the binders currently are.
"Are we good? Is that what you need?" And then, "Why do you need them right now?"
My head spins around, and I hiss, "Because we. have. children."
Say no more.
When I get to work, The Husband asks if everything turned out okay.
My eye starts to twitch. "I let him live, if that's what you mean."
Still, it was Monday night when we printed out the last page of the portfolio that was due Tuesday morning.
"That's it?" I asked.
"That's it!" he declared.
He carefully stapled all the pages, tucked them into his science folder, gave me a hug, and skipped away to play computer games.
Tuesday morning, I sit down to blog something. (Those of you without children should be aware that sitting down at the computer for anything will attract either 1- a child who suddenly wants to play a game, or 2- a child who suddenly needs to do homework, or 3- a child who begs you to read all the new LOL Cats that have been posted in the past three weeks.) So, naturally, the very moment I sit at the computer, Elder Son says, "Oh, Mother, it would be nice to have a title page for that portfolio."
Uh huh. I whip one out.
"Oh," he digs through his papers and draws out a scrap, "this should be on a full sheet of paper instead of this little piece." Seeing my look, he adds, "I can type it up quick."
No, he can't. I've seen him type. Or rather, I've seen him try. So, I throw that together as well.
As he finishes breakfast, he asks, "Do we have any 3-ring binders?"
Do we have any?
Like I could run out and get one at 7:15am if we don't.
It so happens that we *do* have 3-ring binders. In fact, we have an entire box of them because I hoard office supplies, and the box has been clearly labeled and squatting in our garage for the past ten years.
However...
Just this week, The Husband has been going through our ten-year-old pile of garage junk, throwing out crap we've never touched in the past ten years, and rearranging the crap we might look for again in another ten years.
"We have 3-ring binders, dear. But I don't know where they are right now."
"That's okay. I'll leave for school early and get one out of my locker."
"Great."
"But I'll have to punch holes in my report first."
*sigh*
I track down the 3-hole punch (which we thankfully have), he sets to work on making holes, and I set to work washing dishes.
Ten minutes later, there's a frantic squeal on his end of the room.
"What time is it!?! I have to go! We have exams! I can't be late! I won't have time to get a binder, Mother!"
And, you guessed it: "Can you get me a binder? Please?"
I'm sure I could have found a binder just fine the night before... right after printing out that last page.
There might have been a chance of me finding a binder this morning... if I'd have started looking when he first brought it up. (But no, he assured me he had it under control. You heard him, right?)
Now? There's not a freaking chance in the world I'm gonna find a dang binder in the newly rearranged storage heap of a garage we have.
Believe you me, the voices in my head were muttering cuss words even I've never heard before.
And I did something I've never done before and hope never to do ever again.
I grabbed my cell, and I called The Husband at work.
To ask where the friggin' binders are.
As the phone rings, I start pulling neatly stacked boxes off the garage shelves and gawk into their transparent sides to see if I can spot any binders without pawing inside any damn boxes. No luck.
Phone answered. It's not The Husband. "Try this other extension number."
Dial it. Pull more boxes. The Husband doesn't answer the second number. "Try his extension."
*sigh*
!cuss!
Just as I begin ripping lids off boxes, he calls me back. (Because people are now running through the building trying to find him because his wife sounds pretty frantic, right?)
In moments, he describes exactly where the binders currently are.
"Are we good? Is that what you need?" And then, "Why do you need them right now?"
My head spins around, and I hiss, "Because we. have. children."
Say no more.
When I get to work, The Husband asks if everything turned out okay.
My eye starts to twitch. "I let him live, if that's what you mean."
5 comments:
Ah, the joys of being a parent of school age children ....
Well done, I hope you get the A+ our efforts deserve.
This is what I have to look forward to isn't it? Shudder.
On the upside I may have a good reason to horde office supplies. Currently I just do it because I'm insane.
Practice this words: "Sucks to be you!"
I used them a few times when mine had similar homework issues...he learned pretty quick to rescue his own ass...
I homeschooled mine but there were plenty of times they escaped death. Barely.
HAhahahaha - we.have children.
Yes we do. And I know you can see my expression right now... lol
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