About a month ago I, fearing that summer would come and go and we’d have nothing to show for it, decided that each member of the household needed to make some goals.
Since the professor’s typically home a lot more in the summer, I wanted to prevent the five of us from lying around the house until noon in our jammies each day. Like last summer. Which I justified/rationalized because I was carrying an elephant in my womb. And we’d just moved house. And we’d gone to the States. And.
So I sat down at the table with my blondies. And (inadequately) tried to explain the concept of a goal. The Gort settled on learning how to read. And learning to ride his bike. And helping me with our community garden box.
The Hen was not forthcoming on the subject. So I decided he should put ‘learn to use the potty’ as his goal. And I threw in ‘play soccer’ because it seemed a little lazy for him to have only one thing to work on all summer long.
‘What about the baby?’ the Gort asked. ‘He needs to have goals too.’ What can a then eight month-old aspire to? Crawling? Learning to walk? Done.
I settled on exercising and cleaning for mine. And the professor volunteered to exercise and do research. Or something like that.
I taped our five sheets of paper on the wall next to the stairs. So as to motivate (shame) us each time we went up or downstairs. I started walking each morning for something crazy like five days. In a row. Unheard of. Because it was sunny with blue skies. And the baby was only waking up once in the night.
And then it got cloudy. And rainy. And the baby woke up two and three times a night. And now I don’t even remember where I put my shoes.
My oldest looked at me yesterday. ‘You’re not doing your goals really much,’ he chided. Called out, by a six year old, I hung my head in shame. ‘I’m going to remind you every day,’ he warned. Sheesh.
Almost as if he was out on his bike every day or something. I don’t think he could find his bike if his life depended on it. And every time he reads a word, any word, from anywhere, he looks up at me. ‘Mom, I can read, do you think I can get my sticker now?’
The Hen actually ripped his intentions from the wall. ‘I rip-pa my goals!’ he still announces on a semi-daily basis. Like a pouty Italian in training. I guess he’s decided he will not be held accountable for using the potty, even if it means he can get a big boy bed. Which he claims he wants.
It should be noted that the baby is the only member on track with his goal-meeting, having mastered the art of crawling. If at a sloth-like pace.
I sat down this morning. To work on my ‘goals’, which include writing for my blog on a semi-regular basis. My dinosaur of a laptop is missing 3 keys and the screen has been zoomed beyond recognition by a nearly three year old. It’s like using a computer in the ‘large print’ section of the library.
My oldest barreled toward me with a newly discovered package of saltines. Found after foraging in the basement kitchen, no doubt. ‘Mom, look what I found! Saltines! Mom, can you get us some saltines?’
‘In a minute,’ I tried to stall. ‘Mom, Henners is dumping toilet paper in the toilet,’ the Gort tattled two seconds later, followed by ‘can you get us some saltines now?’ All while the baby screamed from an invisible, undetectable malady and the professor inquired ‘so, what time do you want me to be back?’
Maybe next year.
Though, come to think of it, if we have to turn on the heat because it’s barely fifty degrees outside, it is not yet summer. Ergo, I am not yet responsible for meeting my summer goals.