The Blue T-Shirt

Jonathan and I are in his room going through his clothes and sorting them into three piles: stay-at-home clothes, take-to-college clothes, and get-rid-of-these clothes.

“What about this?” I ask, pulling out a blue t-shirt that was bunched in the corner of his sock drawer. It’s from the 2006 World Cup which we purchased in (wait for this) … 2006.  (exhibit A)

exhibit A
2006 World Cup Soccer
Yes, we were watching it in Italy.
Yes, Italy won the World Cup that year.
And yes, that is the shirt in question.

“Oh, I’m keeping that,” Jonathan says.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “I never see you wear it anymore.”

“That’s what I use to clean my glasses,” he replies. (exhibit B)

exhibit B
See? Glasses.

I look at him. With the exception of Timothy (although it’s only a matter of time) EVERYONE in the family wears glasses and therefore we have a never ending supply of Clear View lens cleaner and microfiber cleaning cloths. (exhibit C)

exhibit C

“That shirt is the only thing that works,” he says defensively as he takes the shirt from my hands.

“Jonathan,” I say, as I pull open another drawer. “Look at all these t-shirts. Are you telling me there isn't one  other t-shirt in this pile that will clean your glasses?”  

Evidently not.

The shirt goes in the take-to-college pile so he can clean his glasses in the dorm.

Then I tell him I can take my pinking shears, cut that shirt up into nice little squares, and place them in a decorated box with the following label:

Jonathan’s 2006 World Cup Soccer
Cleaning Cloths

(for eyeglasses only)

He laughs because he thinks I am joking.

And I am.

Kinda sorta.

Bad Words

"Back. To. School." Me, to Timothy (after warning him that if he didn't stop annoying me I was going to say three REALLY bad words).

Read between the lines ...

and there may or may not be a hint of sarcasm.

All's Well that Ends Well (And if it Doesn't End Well, Don't Say a Word)

In our ongoing vacation of hitting the road without any definite plans -- and after yesterday's overload of potato chips and chocolate while visiting Herr's Potato Chip Factory, Hershey's Factory, and Hershey Park -- today we decided that something historical was in order. So this afternoon we arrived in Bedford, VA to visit the National D-Day Memorial Museum.

At the welcome center, we learned that admission included an optional 45-minute guided tour. The boys, who are all about museums (insert sarcasm), said NO to the guided tour, but being responsible parents burdened with the awesome task of educating our children, Joe and I ignored them and said YES to the guided tour.

Now, as parents, sometimes we make good decisions; in fact, MOST of the time we make GREAT decisions, but today wasn't one of those days.

Don't misunderstand. The memorial was reflective, symbolic, and extremely moving. Our guide was friendly and informative. But the weather was sweltering, we were standing in an open field, and while the guide was telling lots of great stories that under normal circumstances would be wonderful ... the fact was that the heat melted us into puddles of inattentiveness. 

After just 15 minutes of freely dripping sweat, our entire existence was reduced to a single, solitary thought which dominated all others: "Oh-my-gosh-it's-so-hot!-Oh!-There-is-a-breeze!-Oh!-It-went-away!-Gosh-darn-it!-It's-soooo-hot." 

It was so hot that I did a very tourist-y thing and walked around with my polka dot rain umbrella for the meagre shade it offered.

It was so hot that at one point I stopped to put my hair in a pony tail and happened to notice that our tour guide wasn't even sweating. He was 77 years old and looked fresh as a daisy. I mean, how was that even possible? It was most annoying.

An hour into the tour -- a tour which was SUPPOSED to last 45 minutes but, from the look of things, was destined to last another half hour -- I whispered to Joe, "The boys are going to be so mad at us."

And they were, except by the time we got back to the van they were too hot to say anything except "air conditioner" and "water".

And their inability to string together a coherent sentence was a good thing because Joe and I we were too hot to put up with any smart-aleck remarks.

The National D-Day Memorial is located in Bedford, Virginia — the community suffering the highest per capita D-Day losses in the nation. The Memorial honors the Allied forces that participated in the invasion of Normandy on June 6, 1944 during World War II. With its stylized English Garden, haunting invasion tableau, and striking Victory Plaza, the Memorial stands as a powerful permanent tribute to the valor, fidelity, and sacrifice of D-Day participants.  The Memorial is encompassed by the names of the 4,413 Allied soldiers who died in the invasion, the most complete list of its kind anywhere in the world.