Monday, Monday, I love Monday! It's so nice and quiet at the office. I know I said on Friday that I love my kids. I should have said that I love my kids in small doses. Two days in a row does not constitute a small dose, that's more like an overdose. Yep, that's me, Caveman Dad, produce 'em and let the better half raise 'em. No, not really!
It was Saturday at the zoo, also known as the Sledge household, and everything was moving along at its usual pace. Dad got to sleep in until about 8:30 or so, that's when Jackie Chan Adventures came on the tube and the three boys (who I shall refer to in this post as J, P and K) started playing out what was showing on the screen. Yes, sir, no better way to wake up than to three screaming kids. Instant Excedrin headache. So, after stumbling out of bed and schlepping to the back porch for the wakeup smoke (we don't smoke in the house), it's time to start the day. Oh joy. I just remembered I have to cantor at Mass tonight. So the better half lets me know that she's going out "shopping", and that I'm going to have to keep the kids from killing each other.
A little note about the little angels. The better half and I have been foster parents for the past 13 years or so, so at any given time we have between one and three foster kids in the house. Our specialty is "medically fragile infants", so at this particular time we have three children in diapers at the home. Sounds like a lot except when you consider two of the three are immobile due to medical problems, the least of which they are fed through tubes in their stomachs. Only one of the infants is mobile, and he has a set of lungs that won't quit, so there's no chance we'll forget he's there. The three at home which are mine and hers are all adopted. J is going to be 12 in a few days; he was a preemie, and at age 11 he's about the size of a typical 8 year old. He has ADHD and is moderately retarded. P will be 11 in a month; his birth mother was a drug addict, and he exhibits some mental problems, nothing serious yet. K is 4 and typifies the definition of a small boy: a loud noise surrounded by dirt. We also have our 19 year old living at home, but since he's usually out with his friends, we'll leave him out of the equation for the moment.
So Dad's trying to maintain order at the house (in my next life, I'm going to be a referee for WWE, by the way) and get a little work done to keep the house going. Yeah, right. Anyway, I get to Mass, come back home, and then the better half and I head out to Home Depot (her second home) to pick up a new string trimmer for the yard and new flooring for the kitchen. Gee, sounds like Sunday is going to be a lot of fun!
Sunday morning: hot and still. You could cut the air with a knife and still not be able to breathe it. So here he is, Caveman Dad, out in the heat and humidity, trying to assemble the string trimmer he purchased the night before. And who's helping him? Of course, J! Luckily it's a one man job (or so I told him), so he just stays back and watches for the most part, with a string of questions of course. Well, I get the bugger assembled, then I think, well, it's put together, might as well gas this sucker up and use it. It's already in the 90s outside, it's not quite 11 a.m., the humidity level is outrageous even for North Carolina this time of year, and Macho Dad is going to be out in the sun running a string trimmer. Never said I was long on brains. To make a long story short (what do you mean, it's too late? Bite me!), P now tells me that I'm REALLY a redneck. Great.
And people wonder why I love to go in to work in an air conditioned office building in beautiful downtown Raleigh on Monday mornings.
Oh yeah, I see that Meryl
survived the Blogathon. Wish I coulda been there for y'all, but as you can tell, my weekends are not my own.