Sure, when I was in my twenties with work hours stretching into midnight, I held a membership with 24 Hour Fitness. It seemed to come automatic with living in San Francisco amid four roommates and eating Top Ramen soup in between happy hours and frivolous dates.
Now living in Ireland with a growing and restless brood, dishing up meals between school runs and bathtime, the only thing I stand to earn from a gym membership are lots more towels and kit to wash.
But alas, Santa was generous this year. Each girl received a dolly, one teething and the other crying. We are just thankful neither include, fake but still gross, poop or pee.
We took a chance with the crying baby, as all parents do with toys and sound. Its whimper is as realistic as a newborn, pleasantly reminding us why we chose against a baby #3. This doll cries and our [Dr.] Babydoll, inserts plastic medicine needle, and per the instructions, baby feels better in two minutes and stops crying. Ah, just like in real life. If you believe that, allow me to give you loan of my husband, he does all the dishes and the housecleaning. Ha.
Under the tree was a Wii, coincidently, also atop DH’s wishlist. So while I’ve been dreaming of piecing nine patches and machine mastering quilting swirls, really I’m finessing my hip action with hula hoops and other self humiliating movements all for the sake of fitness. Not only do I now have more laundry, I have more remotes to tidy and consoles to dust.
And what Santa doesn’t give, godmutters make up for. Both Twirly and Colleen sent me my beloved Reese’s Cups. I used to find them at a petrol station near our Wexford house, but since we’ve moved, they’ve stopped stocking them. Could it be I was the only one buying them?
Twirly’s candies arrived a few days before Christmas. A few careless moves among the Christmas wrapping and Babydoll spied the bag. Gone. Long. Before. Christmas.
Colleen’s package came the day after Christmas. I quickly detected RCs, gift wrapped and all.
Keeping them wrapped, I gently opened one end only to sparingly, and secretly, help myself to chocolately peanut butter goodness. Until.
New Year’s Eve.
Last I saw them: DH with the still-conspicuously wrapped xmas love cups and other goodies in one arm and two wine bottles in the other arm. We proceeded to count down the last 102 minutes of 2008 with wine sips and TV remote clicks.
I remember thinking I can’t waste these RCs on a drunken anti-climactic NYE, pushing them to one side. What side? I don’t remember. And now, they’re gone. I’ve looked everywhere. In a fright, I think, someone’s mistaken them for trash, and they’ve been thrown out! Then I remember I’m the only one who cleans in this house.
There is nothing worse than losing something you care dearly for, so much so, life becomes uncertain. Once, after a party in our apartment, Colleen lost her sunglasses. The two of us looked high and low, but they were nowhere. Our parties were the type that required sunglasses the day after. That, or you didn’t bother to leave the comfort or darkness of your bedcovers. Oh yes, they were great parties, but even bigger clean-up sessions followed; and this time it was at the demise of the shades.
Several days—or weeks—later we were headed to the gym. (Just because we had memberships didn’t mean we exercised regularly.) As Colleen went to pull on her gym shoes, she found her sunglasses tucked deep within. Dumbfounded we quickly learned Roommate#3, during a silly party moment, or in a cleaning-up stupor, stashed the sunglasses in Colleen’s shoes. So when something goes missing, check the shoes. I do.
You can imagine how hard it is to ask a 5yo if she’s seen candy that she is not allowed to know exists, and worse, have, if she finds.
I’ve backtracked the last 48 hours. Before DH’s grand appearance on NYE, I gleefully was cutting pieces from my stash to make my new year project. So I checked my stash, thinking I stashed my goods with my stash. Sounds smart to me.
No such luck. Meanwhile, the girls think Mommy’s gone bonkers.
Especially, after I insisted on inspecting everyone’s shoes.
PS. Before you start blaming the DH, know he hates RCs. Many Irish aren’t hip on peanut butter; I blame a childhood without President Jimmy Carter.
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