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My Varmint is getting old enough that she’s surpassed me on teachable things.  Believe it or not, I am starting to fail her on some subjects.

Fortunately, I did teach her good manners: ‘please,’ and ‘thank you,’ and all the stuff in between, but there are certain things I just can’t pass on to her:

I can’t teach her how to dress stylishly.

I can’t teach her how to do her hair.

I can’t teach her how to drive, at least, not well.

I can’t teach her how to keep wisely silent when necessary.

I can’t teach her how to do a pedicure.

I can’t teach her how to suffer fools.

And I sure as hell can’t teach her Algebra.

That’s My Captain’s job.

And several other things.  Oh, it’s not because she’s in the “Mom is such an idiot” stage, though I’m sure that is rapidly approaching.  And it’s not because I AM an idiot, though that may be rapidly approaching as well.  It’s just that all those ‘cool’ things never meant anything to me.

(Please don’t tell her Algebra teacher I said that.)

Truth is, I don’t spend time on my clothes, or my hair, or perfecting my driving skills (please don’t tell my family),  or practicing the wisdom of silence when need be.  So I never really excelled in any of them.

But to my credit, I did teach her more street-smart things.  You know, things that will actually serve her in this violent, unpredictable, obstacle-ridden life we lead.  The things that hold REAL-WORLD, applicable value, like:

How to fart silently. (You knew that was coming.)

How to belch with your mouth closed in polite company, and blow the belch air out AWAY from people clandestinely .

How to drive in the middle of two lanes to stop a butt-head from cutting in front of everyone.

How to avoid burning bacon.

How to win an argument with sheer volume.

How to walk her own path, when everyone is telling her to walk theirs.

How to take cookies from the cookie jar and re-arrange them so no one would notice any are gone.

These are the things that will actually be useful in life.

But the rest?  I have no idea.  I have no idea how to stencil a wall, or do my taxes, or initiate a corporate merger.  I don’t know how to do make-up in the ‘sexy’ style, and I don’t know any of the answers to any Cosmo Magazine “How To Please A Man’ quiz.  I don’t know how to change a car’s oil, and I don’t know how to write an effective resume letter.

In the end, I suppose all I do know, and all I really can offer in truth,

is my pure love.

And I guess, when I think about it, a mother’s pure love is just about the strongest real-world application anyone can put in their toolbox as they go through life.

But that’s just my own opinion,

and what the hell do I know?

Sheesh!  I’ve been catching all kinds of flak for my post about My Captain’s sole efforts in building our brick patio.  Let me assure you, Vern (can I call you Vern?) that I am indeed in there helping!  I’m right in the thick of all of that hot, sandy, sweaty, spider-filled, roach-infested, teaming-with-sugar-ants pile of bricks, sand, and gravel!  I am!  I am, too!!!! REALLY!

It’s just that after a while, my arthritic knee, and my sore hip, and my stiff back get all hot and sticky and uncomfortable, and the sweat starts dripping down cracks and crevices on my body that make me squirm worse than Miley Cyrus during a Music Video.

Except that I keep my tongue in my mouth….

… for the most part anyways.

And then there is the fact that I am highly distractible.

Take the flowers in my garden above our new patio, for instance.  Aren’t they gorgeous?  (Ignore the dead coneflowers, I’m harvesting them for next year’s seeds!)

And if I happen to look up when I’m wiping the sweat off of my forehead, and notice my beautiful hybrid red Coreopsis…..

Or my sweet seed-sown Zinnias…

Or my sassy seed-sown impatiens….

in amongst my Pink Lemonade Honeysuckle, well, it’s understandable that I might not be as efficient a worker as My Captain, you know?

I knew you’d understand.

Besides, check out my WOUND!  I got this when I was stacking bricks on my arm to heft them over to where I was working.

It’s blurry, I know, but trust me, it should be enough to cause you great concern for my welfare.

Also, it should buy me a bit of a pass tomorrow, with any luck.  I just keep whining that my arm is turning numb, and I think Gangrene may be setting in.

Working as Hard as I Can, Given Who I Am,

Mama

Geesh.  Some people are SO prickly to work with.

My Captain had reached the part of his walk-out basement/brick patio project where he could actually start laying the brick.  It is not a job that many people can do together, as it starts in a small space and goes out very specifically from there.  So in the beginning, all I could do was wait and watch as he got started.  Now see, this is how you do it:

You get a couple of rods to use as depth measures.

You get yourself two tons of sand and move it, using your incredibly delicious biceps and forearms.

Oh yeah.

Yeah, just like that.

You spread it evenly.

And then you lay the first brick and your wife makes it a big deal and adds much pomp and ceremony to it.

And then you lay the second and third bricks, and  your wife makes it a big deal and adds much pomp and ceremony.

And then you lay a bunch more bricks, and your wife makes it a big deal….you get the drift.

And then your family stops by and tells you what you’re doing wrong, which you REALLY like a whole lot.

And then you throw everything down in a huff because your wife isn’t really lightening the work load as you had hoped, even though she is entertaining herself immensely.

Don’t you just love family projects?

Every season I place a different accent rug by the kitchen door.  I don’t know why the heck I do that.  It might be because I get bored easily.  It might be my ADD needing to be stimulated.  It might be my way of acknowledging the ever passing nature of time and season.  It could be my weird need for traditions.  But whatever the reason, I’ve always done it.

And it’s time to do it again.  Summer has gone; It’s time for my autumn rug.

But I’m having a hard time saying goodbye to her.

Just look at her.  Ain’t she purty, Melba?  (Is it okay if I call you Melba?)

Sure, she’s a little worn, but she screams “Summer!” as loudly as she ever did.

I suppose she doesn’t make much sense in our kitchen, though.  We don’t live at the beach.  I don’t own a bike, much less a red one, and frankly I would never put a basket on my bike if I DID have one.  A moose-shaped bell, probably, but never a silly ol’ basket.

But overlooking all of that, this rug perfectly depicts our life in the summer.

(ahem.)

But I don’t want to pull out the autumn rugs yet.  I’m not ready for pumpkins and colored leaves and silly ghosts and witches.

And I’ve always hated change.

Mostly because I’m lazy.  But also because I’m sickeningly sentimental. And hey, if time passes, that means I’m getting older and my children are getting older, and my mother is getting older and my cats are getting older…. (You’ll note that in none of the above examples, did I use the word “MATURE”)  It’s hard, this ever-aging life we lead.

Oh pretty Summer Accent Rug, please don’t leave me!  Don’t leave me, my little red bike that is nothing like anything I’ve ever owned!  Don’t leave me, pretty little beach and stupid wicker basket!

Must……Resist……Change!!!

My Captain, a man of considerable talent and ability, has taken on a project of gigantic proportion.  It has to do with building a walk-out basement and brick patio in the Little Cottage.  The gigantic proportion part has nothing to do with the structural engineering of the retaining walls…he could do that in his sleep.

And it has nothing to do with the construction and earth moving aspects.  He’s got that nailed.

And it’s not even the time-consuming aspect of laying the foundations for the brick pavers, and ultimately laying the pavers in a Herringbone pattern.

The gigantic proportion part is that he is teaching Critter to do all these things along the way.

Critter is a ten-year-old boy who is like a mix of Bugs Bunny’s wit and the Tazmanian Devil’s energy.  He’s bright…dangerously bright.  He’s quick….dangerously quick.  And he’s energetic.  ASTOUNDLINGLY energetic.

Plus he’s ten, which means his impulse control is nil.

And he’s a boy, which means anything worth doing in his world starts with the phrase, “Hey, ya’ll!  Watch this!”

Now, take all of that, wrap it up in a bundle of gorgeousness, and you have my Critter.

Not that I’m biased.

If you were to put the potent mixture that is a Critter and add it to gasoline powered tamper,

a literal ton of gravel and sand,

and two full pallets of brick pavers, and you’d have a handful.

Which is exactly what we had.

Oh, don’t worry, My Captain didn’t hand him the sledge-hammer or the Sawzall to start out with.  Rather, he wisely gave him the job of water-tamping, and hand-tamping.

Now, you might wonder how difficult a task that could possibly be.

And you might wonder if it is really necessary to micro-manage such a simple task.

And you might question how much trouble Critter could possibly get into with just a hose and a tamper.

But if you have noticed by these pictures, My Captain is with him every step of the way.

Partly because he is in ‘teaching’ mode, and he is a very, very, very conscientious teacher.

Partly because he loves the boy and wants to be with him as they work together, not just give him a task and forget about him.

But also because he’s, well, CRITTER.

A Ten-Year-Old Boy.

With “man’s-work” type tools in his hands.

And ALL that that implies!!!!