Boys' Rebellion

The message given in church yesterday was especially moving. I saw the people sitting to my left in tears. I, however, was doing all I could to pay attention to the pastor's words, with one boy kicking me from underneath the pew and the other hanging on my side.

Since Mr. WestBerryWorkingDad has been away for work, the boys have rebelled. Or, perhaps, I'm tired and their antics bother me more than they might otherwise.

A teenager can't get himself off of the couch despite my begging and stern words. Two new lambs, born on a very cold day, weren't discovered for hours and hours because he didn't feel up to morning chores. Maybe he doesn't feel well; maybe he can't push through coming home at 2:30 a.m. after a Denny's feeding frenzy with The Band.

The Band played a St. Patrick's Day heavy metal festival in a nearby city. I sacrificed the use of the minivan and contributed cash for parking, meals and emergencies. And I kept an ear to the phone, because I believed the boys were there without adults to help.

The next morning (on The Band's Facebook page) I learned that other parents and a favorite teacher attended the show. It would have been nice to know (read: would have been nice to sleep).

It would have been nice to know that the baritone lesson was canceled. The boy who forgot to tell me is a young adult, but a child in the sense that he finishes the milk and doesn't let me know, and he springs the news of an overnight away trip on me the day of.

I found the two youngest boys hanging, mid waist, out of a second-story window yesterday, airsoft guns in hand. Reminder: "it's 9 degrees outside AND you could fall."

Back talk.
Whining.
School shoes ruined in the mud.
Aggression.

The sixteen year old grabbed the 7 year old's head this morning to "knock some sense into him." A poked eye. Crying. The 7-year old then begged me, out of fear, to let him go to school, after begging to stay home because he didn't feel well (I had even witnessed his dry heaves.)

For 18 precious hours I was able to visit with my best friend, who lives across the world. 16 of those hours were spent reminding the boys, "Please pick up your chess set. Please stop chain-burping. No potty-talk at the table. Please stop interrupting. Please wear a coat. Please help me with the dishes."

Oh....dishes. Bad subject.

At least Y and I made a ten year plan to meet in an exotic location for some rest and relaxation. Maybe Bali. Something to look forward to.