Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [68]
“Ai-ai-ai,” Zoila said as she looked upon the scene, shaking her head and no doubt wondering at how we can create a fresh new hell for her at every turn.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a Zoila upstate to deal with the magnitude of our collective messes, so during the holidays most of the crime scene investigations are handled by yours truly. As you can imagine, it is a constant job, with armloads of toys to remove from one part of the house to the next, and countless hours spent washing clothes, dishes, and weenies. The kids do seem to have a good time, but there are a few fundamental problems for me. First and foremost, I am a warm-weather gal, and I fear the cold the way some people fear man smell, or taxes. Temperatures in the below-zeros are commonplace in the Berkshires. I don’t care if my children get frost-bite—they can still grow new toes—but me? There is only so much time a woman with my taste in shoes can spend wearing Uggly boots, and at about an hour I pass my limit. The occasional stroll out to the pond on a weekend is one thing; hanging out on a snow-covered mountain all afternoon quite another.
These ski vacations hold little interest for me because I don’t ski. I don’t understand the appeal of a sport that often results in tearing something that makes your knee stop working. Best-case scenario, I am careening down a mountain at high speed, out of control. Worst case, I am on my ass, cold and wet. And why would I willingly engage in a sport that requires me to wear puffy clothes that make me look fat? I much prefer the cute white pleated skirts suitable for summer sports, or the regal gear worn for riding. Naturally, because I can’t leave the house for fear of the cold and hideous footwear, I am stuck cooking and cleaning, two activities I also try to avoid. I do feel a responsibility to put in equal time—Peter gets the boys to the mountain every cold morning, so the least I can do is have something warm waiting for them to eat, even if that means throwing something from the bottom of the freezer in the oven.
As much as I love my husband, once the novelty of skiing with his children wears off he reverts to wandering around inside, looking for something to “fix.” I find myself wondering around day ten of Christmas break whether he has any errands that will get him out of my hair. I think he must feel the need to get away from me, also, because he starts to focus on minutiae that he otherwise tends to overlook.
“Look at the bottom of these pots,” he says a day after New Year’s. Yes, I actually tried to cook real food for New Year’s Day, and these are the thanks I get.
“Okay,” I say, not looking up from my computer, where I’m trying to sneak in a little work so I’m not swallowed up the following week.
“These are expensive pots,” he continues. “If you don’t scrub the bottoms, this gunk will get cooked on and become impossible to remove.”
“Peter, are all the children alive and accounted for?” I ask, glancing up at him.
“Well, yes,” he says, still holding the offending pot bottom up.
“I think we need milk. And see if you can’t run past Big Y and pick up some pot scrubbers while you’re out.”
“I’ll be right back,” he says, conceding the point. Our condition can only be accurately described as too much togetherness, or overwhelming Christmas spirit.
When Peter returns a couple of hours later, he’s brought me a surprise, entering the house loaded down with Kmart bags.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” I say, taking the bags from him and peeking inside. We have an annual tradition of buying up all the reduced-price gaudy ornaments that Kmart has to offer.