It’s the end of the school year and Older Son had a backlog of classwork, so his teacher sent it home to finish over the weekend. I told her that would be fine because usually I sit and do my paperwork while he does homework.
My paperwork is in a giant tilting pile on the kitchen table that is ever-growing and shifting. Dave loves it.
So we finish breakfast, I grab a cup of coffee and get Older Son set up at the table with his pencil box. We begin.
That is when Younger Son decides to play basketball in the kitchen.
I take him to the computer and try to get him set up on bakugan.com. They’re supposed to be able to put codes for their brawlers in there (if you’re a parent in the ’00s you know what this strange language means) but it’s a nightmare, we can’t find the spot and Older Son is yelling for help with multiplication.
I go back to the kitchen, leaving Younger Son to fend for himself.
After figuring out a few math problems I sit back down to my work. Younger Son returns to the kitchen with the new $10 blush brush I bought for myself. He is rubbing it all over his body.
I snatch it, tell him nicely that it’s mine and he can’t have it, and put it on the table. Older Son grabs it and starts pushing down on the bristles to make them fan out. I grab it from him and stalk away to hide it.
Younger Son follows, asking “Didn’t I used to have some makeup? Can I play with yours?” My sister once gave him a palette to paint with but it’s long gone. OK, if we want to let Older Son get his homework done I see that I’ll have to give up and entertain you at this point. We go up to the hall closet and I start raiding it for old cosmetics.
While I’m in the closet Older Son is yelling up the stairs, “How do I spell Lincoln?” so I tell the letters to Younger Son and he passes them on. We are a spelling bucket brigade.
And I can’t believe that I’m in the upstairs hall closet finding makeup for one son and screaming “t-a-u-g-h-t” at the other without having a nervous breakdown.
I find a good enough stash to get Younger Son started and we carry it back down to the kitchen. He quickly proves why I wouldn’t give him my new brush by reducing an eye shadow applicator to rubble. “But I didn’t do aaaaaanything!!!” he claims. Honey, that applicator has been sitting in the hall closet for three years completely intact. I can’t imagine how it just fell apart!
I finally make an attempt to go back to my paperwork (still untouched) and helping Older Son. Story comprehension questions now. I ask Younger if he wants me to show him how to put on mascara and he very confidently replies, “No,” while scraping the brush all over his mouth and chin to draw a mustache and beard.
I love Sunday mornings!