Disclaimer/Prologue/Back Story/Lead In: Whilst I know that there are several million people less fortunate than I, I complain. Whilst I know that there are a gadzillion (that's a real number) single mothers out there that work two jobs and get 4 kids to school everyday all alone, I complain. It is my nature. I don't apologize for who I am. I simply "admit."
So, now I am gonna "bring it."
Football season is always a special time in our household. "Special" in the excruciating sense of the word. All summer long we live under the blissful umbrella of Mr. Coach's attentiveness and general presence under our roof. Then, all of the sudden, in mid-August he just ghosts into oblivion with no forward notice and we never see him again. Kinda like my boyfriend in college. We stand there holding a half-eaten a hot dog and a balloon as we watch the last beautiful wisps of summer evaporate in our grasp. And it is a hard pill to swallow.
Suddenly, there is nobody in the house but me that has a driver's license. Or a conscience. Or a general idea that crayons do not belong in the sink and clean laundry should not do double duty as a throw rug. And I still actually have a real person, adult, grown-up job in addition to wearing the yoke of Football Wifery.
School rears it's ugly head just two weeks into this fiasco, and I, apparently, am the only one who knows how to sign homework. I am the only one who perceives that the circle on the wall with 12 numbers and 2 pointy hands is actually telling us when to bathe the children and put them in a bed. I attend the Open House at the elementary school alone with all 3 children, bumbling from room to room. I am asked by their teachers, "Hey, where's Dad?" And I look at them and shrug. "I don't know. We haven't seen him since mid-August."
Mount Laundry needs to be climbed and conquered daily. And, I appear to be the ONLY mountaineer in the house. There are Soccer uniforms and special "Friday" t-shirts and the most important garment: The Coaching Outfit. If any of these fail to be ready on the appointed day......{shudder}.....I don't want to know what would happen. Apparently the loading and starting of the washing machine must be something akin to that scene in Crimson Tide when they need two keys and a couple of passcodes to launch the nuclear submarine missile....ONLY I CAN DO IT. The passcodes are "Tide" and "Downy."
The daily menu also falls into my job definition. And because the romance betwixt me and Tyler Florence didn't pan out, I am not much of a creative culinary artist. It is edible. It is well-rounded. But it isn't good enough for Mr. Coach. Just tonight, he let me know that I am so "behind the times" if I am still consulting the Food Pyramid. That the wheat bread I purchased wasn't "wheaty enough." That he'd like a little more "variety" in our menu. That we just need to have some groceries that we can "Bingo-Bango-Bongo get a healthy meal on the table." That he'd be glad to help with dinner preparation from 6-6:15 AM and from 6:45-7 PM. Only if he is not on his Supposiphone or the Supposicomputer. I would like to cram Supposidinner somewhere. Which is the general gist of what I communicated to him while I was holding a wooden spoon in a fairly threatening, ninja-like manner.
I would love to go into the reasons why I am the only one who doesn't consider it "OK" to let a used Band-Aid sit in the middle of the kitchen floor. Or why a used juice box is not a coaster for another juice box. Or why everyone is so scared of the vacuum or the dishwasher. I would LOVE to go into the reasons. IF I KNEW THEM. But I do not.
But, it's all good. I tell myself I just have to be patient. (In the words of Jim Mora: Playoffs? Don't talk about -- playoffs?! You kidding me?! Playoffs?!) Come the first week in November, Mr. Coach will be back as a productive member of our household. And we will once again be able to return to a semblance of normalcy.
Bingo-Bango-Bongo. I wish that thing with Tyler Florence had worked out.....
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