Sahm I Am

Hah! Well, I took Griffith potty, got Seamus and Cosette dressed, helped Tristan with breakfast, put the dishes in the dishwasher, kissed Tristan good morning (hey, it took us a while, okay?), threw a load of towels in the washing machine, stopped Seamus from teasing Cosette, cleaned up Griffith’s potty accident, read my e-mail, talked to my mother on the phone, ran back down to the basement to START the washing machine, stopped Seamus from teasing Cosette, took Griffith potty, checked my e-mail again, talked to my mother-in-law from England on the phone, stopped Seamus from teasing Cosette, set Seamus in the corner, told Griffith to take himself to the potty, put his wet pants to soak in the sink, sat down to eat my breakfast (my Marshmallow Crunchies were soggy by this time), stopped Cosette from gloating over Seamus-in-the-corner AND helped Griffith (he fell in the toilet.) ALL BEFORE EITHER YOU OR ROSALYN SAW THE LIGHT OF DAY!

Now I need to go get dressed and fix lunch. It’s been a very productive morning.

Z

…but it does help that you live in the Eastern time zone. :)

Brenna

Not so fast, Z. Where’s Tristan in all this? Doesn’t he get the day off?

Jocelyn

I’ll confess—he was helping me with a lot of that this morning. But he also took the car in for an oil change and alphabetized our home library. He likes doing stuff like that.

Z

Then I say Brenna won anyway, because I’ll bet NOBODY at their house is getting a day off—are they, Bren?

Jocelyn

No fair—you’re pulling out the “pity the hardworking farmer” card on me! I can’t help it if my husband is a CPA. And a drop-dead gorgeous one, at that…

Z

Thanks, Jocelyn! Z, we’ll pity you during tax season—that’s our slow time on the farm anyway. Now do you feel better? Brenna

…but come January, I expect LOTS of sympathy!

Z

Hey gals,

Would it be okay for me to invite Phyllis to chat with us tonight? You know—she’s the pastor’s wife that likes Z’s Shakespeare quotes? We’ve been e-mailing off and on all day today—it started because I wrote to tell her I could relate to her story about getting pregnant before marriage. And I was upset with Rosalyn’s reaction to it. But Phyllis is really sweet, and she seems lonely. She told me she doesn’t really fit in with any of the women in her church. They treat her differently because she’s the pastor’s wife. Plus, she’s only 27 and everyone else is decades older. Dulcie, you’d be able to relate to her because her husband is always busy. And Z, you have the Shakespeare connection. I don’t know about Jocelyn yet, but I’m sure you could find some common ground, too. Don’t you have room for one more?

Hope I’m not stepping on any toes…

Brenna

Of course you can invite Phyllis! It’s not like this is some secret club or anything. We’d love to have her.

I actually won’t be there tonight—we have a soccer game for Tyler, and Cassia was invited to a cookout with a little friend from the kindergarten Sunday school class. Then we get to take all four kids to Denver for an overnight with Shane’s parents, because Shane took a vacation day tomorrow. So tonight, it’s just me and my sweetie…no cyber-friends allowed! :)

Jocelyn

Whoa, Jocelyn, sounds exciting! I’m jealous—wish Tristan and I got a little more alone time.

As for Phyllis—sure, Brenna, bring her along. I was wanting to get to know her anyway. Don’t think Dulcie would mind, either. Speaking of Dulcie, I wonder what she’s up to today?

Z

Funny that Rosalyn should mention apples…

We went to my parents’ house today for a cookout—my brother Kevin was there with his family (my other brother Scott and his wife live in Connecticut), and Marianne and Brandon came along, too, with Helene, since all their family lives too far away to come for a three-day weekend. My parents live on a small acreage on the outskirts of Omaha, and in their backyard are three dwarf apple trees.

Kevin was playing catch with his two younger kids (Emma, 8, and Treyton, 6). His oldest, Abigail, thinks it’s beneath her dignity as an 11-year-old, so she sat on a blanket watching the twins for me. Instead of a ball, Kevin was using apples, which are still small and a tad green here—hard enough to make great baseballs.

Of course, McKenzie wanted to play, too! But Treyton thought a 3-year-old, and a girl to boot, would ruin the game. However, Uncle Kevin is a sucker for his oldest niece, and said she could play. That miffed his son, and I could see that the game of catch was going to disintegrate in about ten seconds. So I hurried over to Tom, who was helping my dad get the grill started (dad refuses to buy a gas grill—says the charcoal adds flavor). I asked Tom if he would like to play catch with McKenzie.

It’s weird—at first, he said no. Why would a dad refuse to play catch with his daughter? He must have seen the look of displeasure in my eyes because he quickly changed his mind. We found a nice small apple that McKenzie could hold, but when she tried to throw it, she couldn’t get it to go far enough for Tom to catch. Her eyes got all shiny, like great big melted chocolate kisses, and her bottom lip edged out.

“I wanna play catch like Treyton and Emma.” The lip bobbled, and I could almost hear the tears making their way to the surface, like a pint-size geyser getting ready to erupt. Haley and Aidan and Marianne’s baby, Helene, had already cried enough that morning, I didn’t want to let another one get started.

So I scooped McKenzie up and twirled her around. “I’ll help you, okay? We’ll be a team—like the baseball teams on TV.”

She giggled. “Okay!” And at that moment, I congratulated myself—sometimes, even I can’t believe what a maternal genius I am. :)

I balanced her on my hip, and jogged back toward the edge of the lawn. We made a big show of flexing our arms and digging in our feet, like the pitchers on television. Tom just stood there, looking really uncomfortable, like he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. He watched Kevin toss an apple to his kids, and then turned back to us. He picked up the little green apple we’d chosen for McKenzie and tossed it our direction.

It fell about halfway between him and us. So we ran to pick it up and I helped McKenzie lob it back. I thought it was a good toss, but Tom couldn’t catch it. We backed up again and waited for him to throw the apple.

This time, he tried it overhand and it arched straight up in the air and landed at his feet. He laughed, but I noticed his face looked flushed. I hope he wasn’t embarrassed—do you suppose maybe he was? Now that I think about it, Kevin plays on his company’s softball team, and he’s pretty good. He even tried to give Tom some pointers, but Tom didn’t seem to be interested. Brandon offered to play instead, and let Tom go back and help my dad, but Tom blew him off. I felt he was being rude, and I also was starting to wonder if he was doing such a bad job because he hadn’t wanted to play in the first place.

So when he finally gave up the overhand and tossed it underhand to us, I picked the apple up and told McKenzie, “Here, sweetie, let’s show Daddy how to REALLY throw!”

I know he heard me, too, because he scowled, then put on a fake sort of grin, like he didn’t want anyone to know he was upset. I feel bad about it now….

It’s not technically my fault—and it’s not Marianne’s, either, but just as I let go of the apple, Helene screeched. And when Helene screeches, EVERYBODY pays attention. Tom turned his head just a little bit, to look at her.

And that’s when the apple struck him—right in his eye.

The poor guy grunted and doubled over, his hands over his face. McKenzie started sobbing that her daddy was hurted and going to die. That set the twins off, which set Helene off, and meanwhile Kevin had also doubled over—laughing—and Treyton and Emma were clamoring around Tom, wondering if he was bleeding or not. By the time McKenzie and I reached him, and Marianne and Kevin’s wife, Gemma, were quieting Helene and the twins, he shoved us all away and stomped into the house for some ice, my mother in hot pursuit. (She’d never miss a chance to do some mothering.) He wouldn’t even let me help him!

And now, he just left to go back to Kansas City—with the beginnings of a brilliant shiner. I tried to explain it was an accident. He says he believes me…but I wonder. It’s too bad, really—we’d had such a nice date on Saturday. And now, I think we’re back where we started. All because of an apple.

Dulcie

Dear Ms. Huckleberry:

This is Mike Gumble, manager of the Colorado Rockies. After hearing of your remarkable throwing abilities yesterday, we would like to extend an invitation to try out for our team. We have been discussing the idea of having a few good women on the team—it would be great PR, with all the controversy about gender equality in sports. Please reply at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Mike Gumble

Dear “Mr. Gumble,”

Thank you for that…gracious offer, but I am not interested. AND IT ISN’T FUNNY, JOCELYN! SO GIVE ME SOME SYMPATHY INSTEAD OF MOCKING MY PREDICAMENT!!! DON’T YOU HAVE ANY COMPASSION FOR MY POOR, BLACK-EYED HUSBAND?