How a "nothing happened" week can look

Note:  This column was published in the 01/09/12 edition of The Goshen News.  Good thing there's 'nothing' happening.  My excitement meter's in the red.

Right about now, many people hit the mid winter blahs.  Holidays are over, and Memorial Day is a long way off.  At our house we are between school activities, so all is quiet on that front. 

Life, I find, seems mundane in the absence of big goings-on.   Of course, if I go by what my men tell me, there’s never anything happening and it’s always mundane.  Here’s how that particular conversation goes. 

Me:  “So what happened today?”

Them:  “Nothing.”

“Really?” I say.  “Nothing happened?”

“Nope.”

Out of curiosity, I decided to keep a record of what actually goes on here in the course of a normal, boring week.  Here is a peek at my journal. 

Sunday:  Attend surprise party for sister-in-law’s fortieth birthday.  Come home, lie in bed with third-grader whose love language is quality time.  Older brother in camouflage slips in, making three.  Uncharacteristically, oldest brother joins us, making four; then, characteristically, proceeds to pound younger brothers.  Father enters fray, disperses mob.  Team of Boy Scouts moves in to untangle knotted sheets.

Monday:  Senior demonstrates superior logic by asking parents for ride to school because he has no gas, then announces plans to drive to Mishawaka later with buddies.  Parents politely decline.  Baby insists on feeding self, finger paints in spaghetti sauce. 

Popular Science magazine is confiscated from son with far more interest in gadgets than homework.  Mother “encourages” keener interest in homework by firing in the air twice.  Same son stops mother on the way out the door with pressing questions about Heaven.  Baby sits on brother’s Ripstik, tries to “rip.”  Mother overhears nine-year-old tell baby, “You surprised us (by being born).  You barely hit the target of life.”

Tuesday:  Father changes baby before going to work.  Calls up the stairs from a kneeling position, “This is a three-wipe deal – and you know I’m conservative!”  Mother chortles at keyboard. 

Senior announces at breakfast that financial aid meeting was last night.  Parents take turns pounding son into kitchen floor like a tent stake.  Baby wakes up from nap with diaper inexplicably around one ankle, liberally waters bedding.  Mother smuggles Blanky into machine to forestall angry wails at the window of the washer with pathetic attempts to retrieve wet Blanky.   

Wednesday:  By now, mother needs mocha or she will high-center on fabled mid-week hump and will never make it over.  En route to purchasing her “therapy in a cup,” she drops three sons off at three different schools.  Third grader gets dibs on front seat, much to brothers’ chagrin.  The second his jeans leave the van, the 14-year-old slithers his into the still-warm spot for the 12-yard drive to the middle school.  Oldest son scoffs at mother’s defense of brother and her explanation that “this way, all three bottoms are happy.” 

Upon arrival at the middle school, 18-year-old darts from back, charges for the passenger’s seat where brother is saying goodbye to mother, and proceeds to “help” him out.  The “helpee” throws himself in dramatic fashion across front seat, clutching and screaming in mock terror as “helper” pulls on his bottom half.  (To the person who was dropping a kiddo off behind us – it only looked like a carjacking.)  Mother makes note to self to purchase plastic glasses with fake nose and mustache in case she ever has to go to middle school again. 

Nearing Panther Drive, she slows to 35, forcing reluctant senior to jump before gunning it towards the coffee shop.  Later, they meet the Schrocks at a Goshen restaurant to see a brother in from Georgia.  Service so slow that sister-in-law has another birthday and is now 41.  Will 10 restless grandchildren stage a coup, start a food fight?  Adults worry. 

Thursday:  Weekly 6:30 breakfast with oldest son.  Conversation ranges from relationships to work to pros and cons of having a credit card at 18.  Later, mother has mini meltdown, looks to resign over some issues with kids that suddenly rear up.  Tells father to put her down like a horse with a broken leg.  Father refuses; encourages instead.  Lucky her.  Lucky him.  Lucky boys! 

Friday:  Weekly flight to (where else?) coffee shop to write column.  Father set to leave for office with baby when baby waters his good shirt, requiring fresh clothes for both.  Mother exhausted after typing 225 reports for the week, issues SOS.  Father saves the day, comes home with pizza. 

Funny how tired you can be after a week full of so much “nothing.”  And I haven’t even mentioned the cooking, cleaning, laundry, straightening, counseling, instructing, training, reminding, encouraging, and general directing it takes to keep all this “nothing” on track. 

Good thing it’s so boring around here.  I don’t think I could handle much more excitement. 

Though the ages of the parties involved have changed, not much else has.  There’s still the odd struggle in the van, the occasional maternal meltdown, and the intermittent calls for pizza.  In other words, a whole lot of “nothing.”