It was a lovely weekend, one that reminded me that not all Saturday/Sunday combinations are already pre-committed to work activities, travel, etc. In fact, I'd say it was only marred by two things, both of which make me cringe.
The first was when Husband asked me Saturday morning what I had planned for the day.
Young brides, heed my advice: If you are asked by your dearly beloved what your plans are for a day, have some. It is theoretically possible that you haven't yet committed the day to anything productive because in your heart of hearts you had said "Wahoo! It's raining! I'm going to knit and read trashy novels and watch Netflix all day long!" (Your heart of hearts is pretty self-indulgent.) But if that is the case, for heaven's sake don't admit it. Make up something else.
"Well, honey," you could say, "today was the day I had set aside for achieving world peace. Would you like to join me in that?" or "Well, honey, I'm almost there with my calculations on perpetual motion. Maybe you could help?"
Take the offensive, I'm saying, and leave no opportunity for your dearly beloved to say "If we just spent half an hour on it, we could get the back bedroom cleaned out." Because when he says that you will see your plans for knitting and reading and Netflixing grow wings and fly out the rain-spattered window.
Not only is half an hour a ridiculously optimistic estimate (because, ha ha ha, really? Half an hour?) delving into the back bedroom means you will confront the second thing that will make you cringe.
All of you Small Town parents of freshmen biology students surely recognize the skeletal remains Husband is holding in today's picture. It's probably triggering flashbacks to the night before the cell model was due and your dear child was saying "Hey, what do we have around here that looks like mitochondria?" And because it's a Small Town and all of our Boys had the same freshman biology teacher, that means I heard that question four times. Quadruple the adrenaline rush in watching a Boy in the pantry or the sewing room or the workshop trying to figure out what could stand in for a plasma membrane or a ribosome or a Golgi complex. (No, of course I didn't remember those words--that's what Google is for, and if I'd known about Google a couple of decades ago I would have told the biology teacher about it.)
This is Boy#4's cell model, which has been lurking in the back bedroom for a decade now. Ten years during which I could not actually bring myself to throw out this final cell model to be constructed in the House on the Corner. Boy#1's cell model, with its oozing spray insulation/cytoplasm that kept growing and growing even after the project was graded and returned, had been pulled down from a closet shelf and disposed of years earlier. I don't remember what happened to cell models #2 and #3.
Finally, on Saturday I was ready to cut the chloroplastic cord. The final cell model is in the trash, the half-hour of cleaning was expanded to 2 1/2 hours, and we have a newly usable back bedroom. All in all, it wasn't a bad use of a spare Saturday.
But now I'm ready for another rainy day. This time, though,
knitting/trashy books/Netflix world peace and perpetual motion are on the schedule. Please do not disturb.