Today I prayed for rain. Not because I'm a good and faithful farmwife. Not because my tomato plants are brown. Not even because Luke Bryan told us rain is a good thing. Today I prayed and prayed and prayed for rain because today is Wednesday....Jake's golf league night.
Early this Spring, Jake came to me and said that he had been asked by an acquaintance to join a golf league. It would be every Wednesday night all summer long. He wanted to know how I HONESTLY felt about him joining. He even said, "If you don't want me to, I won't do it."
Because my husband works hard...SO hard....and he never does anything with friends...and because he never ever tells me no...and because honestly...I wanted to be the cool wife....I TOLD HIM TO JOIN. And it took approximately one week into the league for me to sorely regret that choice.
I love my children. I love staying home with them. I love running our two businesses and doing all of the cool stuff I do from my kitchen table. I am fully aware of how blessed I am. I am not worthy of the life I lead. Wednesdays are just really long days. You consider his long work day...then however many hours he spends working on the farm...that's a lot of hours to be alone with tiny humans that yell all day long. THEN....you tack on a few hours of him being away at the golf course. Imagine a maple syrup factory in Alaska being run by turtles...that's the speed that time ticks by on Wednesdays.
The kids actually had a pretty great day today. The girls played in their room together nicely all day. Never asked to watch TV. Snack requests were minimal. Only one major "Baby Fight Club" throw down. It was a good day. Until supper time.
I would like to tell you that this blog post ends in a positive, upbeat tone. Maybe you will see it that way despite my utter and complete honesty. I am writing in tears because I decided to make my life "easy" and serve BLTs and leftover pasta salad on paper plates. Denver refused to eat. She said my cooking is "gross." Finley was a little more polite. She put the bread, the tomatoes, the lettuce, and all the vegetables from the pasta salad in an "I don't like this" pile. She said "The bacon was good though, mom!" And just as I was frying up the last batch of bacon, I heard Granger crying in his room. I dipped out "just for a sec" to check on him. He had completely blown up his diaper with a poop I can only describe as reminiscent of Old Faithful meets a Miralax commercial. Forgetting about the bacon on the stove, I proceeded to clean him up.
Long story short, my dog ate 90% of the girls' meal...my house smells like toddler poop and burnt bacon...and the sun is still shining. Jake is golfing. And I am repeating to myself that all the old ladies I know keep telling me
"I will miss these days." I am fairly confident that I will NOT miss the Wednesday that I prayed for rain and burned the bacon.