I spent FIVE HOURS OF MY LIFE on Sunday afternoon preparing meals for the week.
Chopping vegetables. Peeling sweet potatoes. And burning a few things, because that’s just how it goes around here.
Pinterest told me this little prep process would take 1.5 hours. Pinterest is a liar.
But whatever, I’m over it.
Mostly because dinner this week will be speedy and super nutritious. And if not super nutritious, at least it will be more nutritious than the Mexican food Larry has to pick up on his way home when dinner was a blackened result of ineffective multi-tasking.
I marvel that it only took me 12 years of married life to realize meal time success requires a bit of forethought. Poor Larry.
And “Poor Larry…” must be exactly what his mother was thinking when she sent me her lifetime collection of cookbooks and recipes. If I didn’t know her motives were entirely loving, I might think she is passively-aggressively urging me to seek help for my kitchen issues.
Then again, she probably is.
I just wish she would send me a book called something like How To Cope When Your 4th Grade Son Has a Girlfriend. Because, THAT is the Breaking News around this house, and, YES, it sort of makes me want to hurl.
Not to mention that Luke has shared this non-trivial information with Everyone On The Planet except me. Because it’s not like I carried him in the womb for 9 nauseous months or anything crazy like that.
All I know is that her name is Whitney and she is “totally his type” because she’s blonde. And that information was gathered from my friends who are super-sleuths and possibly also have links to the mob. (Feel free to share this info with Whitney.)
To be fair, I’m sure she’s a lovely girl. And by the grace of God, I have no inclination to be That Mom Who Hates All The Girlfriends. It’s just that HE IS TEN for crying out loud, and I want to bottle up childhood, and bury my head in the sand, and pretend that the teenage years are decades away.
Sometimes I wish motherhood didn’t present so many opportunities to admit life isn’t mine to control. (Dang it.)
Oh but sure enough, marriage would be there to remind me. Because I cannot control Larry, which was evident by the shoes he wore to church on Sunday. (And okay, fine, if shoes are my biggest marital concern, then I’m as grateful as all get-out.)
But these shoes. Let’s just say I didn’t like them when he bought them in 2009, and six years later they are still on my Fashion Don’t list. Frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Larry and his shoes showed up in one of those Fashion Police snapshots in the back of US magazine, with one of those white strips across his eyes to protect his anonymity.
I mean maybe the shoes would work if he were a hipster. But he’s not. (Thank you, Jesus.) And if I didn’t know any better, I might reason that the shoes are signs of a midlife crisis. But that would have been a passing phase, and these obviously aren’t.
That much became clear on Saturday afternoon. As part of our mission to purge our household of all the excess (#konmari), we spent the weekend cleaning out closets and drawers.
As I diligently sorted craft supplies into Keep and Toss piles, Larry popped into the kitchen with happiness on his face, and the offending shoes in his hand. I naively thought we were both laughing like “Hahaha, can you even believe you ever bought those?”
But his smiling excitement was more like, “Look at this treasure I found! I can’t believe I forgot about these!”
I tried to manage my disappointment, but I’m not a good actor: “So…you’re keeping them?”
That’s what came out of my mouth, but on the inside I was asking God to please-pretty-please make them go away.
But I pushed that minor shoe trauma to the recesses of my mind, and I didn’t think about them again until Larry nudged me during the middle of Sunday’s sermon to point out his footwear.
That moment marks the first time I’ve ever had the spontaneous urge to drop an expletive during church. But I guess the Holy Spirit keeps a tight lid on that kind of thing, because all I could muster was a look of sheer horror.
I wish I could tell you this prompted Larry to acknowledge that these shoes are from the devil, but no.
If there was a moral to this story, I suppose it would be something about how you can’t control your children or your husband. So you might as well just put everyone out of their misery and quit trying. And pray that God will give you strength to keep from tossing the ugly shoes when he’s at work.
(Maybe my mother-in-law has a book on how to handle that.)
Talk to you soon…
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