July 23, 2017 by Jenny
It’s come to my attention that I’m generally not happy with anything in life. For example, I recently planted a small forest of trees in my yard, which immediately caused the Spring 2017 Midwest Drought: arguably the first drought that has ever occurred during spring months since 1643. Obviously, I was not happy about this, and neither was my bank account when I received the next water bill.
One can also assume my trees were not happy, either, when I decided they were on their own in finding a water source.
Then enter the Tree Demolition Derby of 2017, in which Junior runs over one of my baby trees (mind you, that is 4-ft tall in a 3-ft mulch bed) with the Hot Wheels dune buggy I [unwisely] bought him for his birthday. The incident still traumatically runs through my mind in slow motion. I can almost not bear to write about it.
Junior likes to zig zag around The Forest like it’s an obstacle course, and one fateful day he heads right for my poor tree. I’m trailing not far behind (on my legs, to be clear) and I’m thinking: “Boy, he is living on the edge and really starting to cut it closeeeeeee…..”
Bounces right on over the tree with such force that it even snaps the tree stake in half.
The neighbors tell me they heard a wild animal howling in agony, echoing throughout the mountains of the ‘hood around the time of said incident.
Just kidding. There aren’t any mountains in my neighborhood.
So, anyway, in trying to find the Good in the World and distract myself from
smashing lovingly taking that dune buggy apart piece by piece and leaving all the nuts and bolts in the middle of Junior’s room one night as he’s peacefully, contently experiencing REM, I decide I may need to readjust my attitude. There’s always a brighter side. I think: droughts are good, right? (Stay with me here.)
I admit it did take me a good couple of weeks and several bottles of wine to figure out why. But darn it, I did.
Droughts mean I can start killing grass in preparation for brand new flower beds! Droughts mean I can repaint my deck! And, I have a free weekend to actually do these things! So, Junior and his dune buggy both happily live to see the rest of Year Six, and I go full force grass-killing-paint-prepping-I-can-take-on-the-world-mode. I start to think maybe this is what happiness feels like.
Then this happens: The Great Summer Monsoon of 2017. Why? Just why?
(I also don’t believe a drop of precipitation has ever been recorded in the month of July since approximately 428 BC.)
Mother Nature: I love fucking with you.
Me: I hate my life.
So that leaves me here, sitting on the couch, sobbing a little, trying to think of something positive and uplifting to blog about in the meanwhile, because I otherwise have nothing to do with myself. The wine is gone. The trees are watered. It’s thundering outside. There will never be another Linkin Park as-we-know-it album again. (RIP Chester Bennington.)
Darkness. Despair. Gloom.
Since there are no nuts and bolts we can leave laying around anywhere to really affect Mother Nature and her mood swings, I realize it’s up to me to figure out where to go from here. I look to my cats to see what they’re doing on this thunderous day and possibly take cue from them. Kitty is literally snoring next to me. Boy Cat is bathing himself. We are having a wildly out of control Sunday over here.
Should I throw in the towel and take a nap? Should I shower? Do I smell? Suddenly I recall an enlightening conversation I had with Junior a couple of months ago that changes everything.
First, you must know two key facts:
- In all of Junior’s tantrums, disagreements, throw-downs, etc., I often lecture him that life doesn’t always go how you want it to, and basically to just deal with it. His response is generally a blank stare.
- Since Junior and I have moved into our new home, I since declared it the Fart-Free-Zone. My logic: No men here = no smells. Unfortunately, being a little man himself, Junior doesn’t like this rule and often tries to test the boundaries. I have kicked him out of my bedroom, living room, kitchen, etc. many, many times for violating this rule.
One evening, Junior and I were sitting in my bed reading a bedtime story, and he gasses us out. To the point where the cats didn’t even want to be in the room. I try to kick him out on account of violation of Fart-Free-Zone Rule #1, and he looks at me dead in the eye and declares:
“Life doesn’t always go how you want it to, Mommy, when I gotta fart, I gotta fart!”
Why is that child always right about everything? Fine, Mother Nature, you win. Where is my wine?