We went to our elementary school's gala last night. It was pretty fun. It was a legit shirt-and-tie, ball-gown event at a pricey restaurant. We weren't expecting it to be so formal, so we were a bit underdressed -- not uncomfortably underdressed, but we definitely would've kicked it up a notch had we known. The whole thing was very last minute on our end. S was in Iceland this past week for work, and she didn't get back until Friday, so we weren't really communicating, and I'm a bad parent who doesn't keep up with all the emails and alerts we get from the kids' school, so I didn't even know what or when the gala was. But at the playground Friday afternoon all our parent friends were talking about it, so I asked S about it when she got home, and she said she actually already bought two tickets just to support the school but was ambivalent about attending. I was feeling some FOMO, however, so I texted S's sis, and she agreed to watch the kids for the night -- so it was all set.
Things didn't get off to the best start. S was jet lagged and kinda (read: very) grumpy by the time Saturday evening rolled around and not really in the partying mood. This has increasingly become the case when S travels. She used to have super recuperative powers, in which she could somehow seamlessly transition from time zone to time zone with little ill-effect. But now in her mid-40s, I've noticed she doesn't bounce back at quite the same pace. (Still way better than me though.) So, when she has to go somewhere for work, she'll say something to me like, "Don't worry, it's only Monday through Friday." And I'm thinking Yeah, plus all day Saturday when you're groggy and irritable.
Believe it or not, I never complain, though. I never tell her she can't go somewhere, and I never make her feel guilty about leaving. I dutifully take care of the kids on my own when she's gone. There are several reasons I don't object. For one thing, I know she still likes traveling, even if it's getting a bit more taxing on her; for another thing, she takes the lead on so many day-to-day household management things that it all evens out; and for yet another thing, she's very successful in her career, and we all reap the benefits of that, myself included, so if that means I have to solo-parent for five or six days every few months, so be it.
But it's not always easy. We got into a little snit right before we left for the gala because either I was unnecessarily rushing her (her view) or she was being snarky and snide when I was merely trying to figure out our timeline for the evening (my view). It was a bit of an icy drive to the gala, but I don't stay mad for long, and S isn't one to air our dirty laundry in public, so I figured once we got there she would at least pretend everything was cool with us, and then at some point in the night, it actually would be. Fake it till you make it, see.
And so it went and we had a pretty good time.
That is until the drive home when S's sister texted that our upstairs smelled like gas, so they opened up all the windows and went to the basement. This is obviously a very disconcerting message to get. I was hoping she was making much ado about nothing, but if anything she undersold the situation. It didn't just smell like gas, it fucking reeked of it. Like, you walk in and are instantly nauseated by it.
We once had a legit gas leak in our old house, and the only thing you can really do about it is call 9-1-1 and have the fire department come out to inspect everything. That seemed like a less than ideal plan at 11:00 pm, but it did seem better than, like, our house exploding, so I was about to do it, but then Lil' S1 told us he noticed earlier that one of the knobs for a burner on our stove was askew, and he fixed it. That clearly seemed like the cause to me, so I decided to not call 9-1-1 and instead to amp up the air-out effort, open more windows, get a big fan involved, put everybody to bed, and watch Better Call Saul. If the smell was still as strong when the show is over then we'd have to evacuate and call in the emergency response team. Thankfully, however, as suspected, it had dissipated almost entirely by the time Jimmy had manipulated Kim in a way that made her feel simultaneously disgusted, pleased, and a little turned-on.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of our headaches. Lil' S2 woke up today complaining about a hurt leg, and it became clear throughout the morning that this was a real injury, not a "little kid injury." It sounded like a strained muscle to me, but I took him to the doctor, just to be on the safe side, and it is indeed a strained muscle. The doctor wrapped it, and we can ice it and give him kiddie pain meds, if need be, but really the only thing we can do is wait for it to heal. This is hard for any little kid, but especially one like Lil' S1 whose entire modus operandi is bouncing off of walls (which probably explains how he got the strain in the first place).
Well, the good thing is he's got those amazing little kid healing powers going for him. If this were me and I strained my quad, I'd have to put a freeze on gym membership for six weeks. He'll probably be feeling better by six tonight. Let's hope.
Until next time...
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