What your coach never tells you . . .

It’s early morning. I open my eyes to “M – 0- m, my-brother-broke-my-Lego”  . . . “well-he-hit-me!” . . . “but-he-broke-it-on-purpose!”

Oh joy. Another one of those weird holidays that only the kids and no one else has off.  Saint Test-Your-Patience Day or something like that. And my husband was unexpectedly called out of town, so I’m on my own.

I leap out of bed with great enthusiasm (sort of), and go downstairs to referee and make breakfast for my 7 year old twins, Alex and Kevin. I trip over my cat, Leia, who is rushing into my room to get away from my herding dog, Tessa, who is enthusiastically trying to herd her. That poor dog could use a sheep or two around.  I pick myself up and continue on my way.

My neighbors are never sure if the loud wails that pierce the chill morning air are the pets or the kids, so I’ve made it perfectly clear who to watch out for.  I have a painted wooden sign on my gate that reads: “Forget the dog, beware of the kids.”

My next door neighbor Terry is one of my favorite people. This angel from heaven comes over every morning to take Tessa for a run in the forest or at the beach. His herding dog and mine are best friends. Together they insure there are no stray squirrels lounging about the perimeter.  But this morning, I hear barking, kids and a commotion outside . . .  so I run to look out the window–

Uh-Oh. Alex, our ”Junior Engineer” got his crafty hands on a roll of twine yesterday and created an elaborate criss-cross trap in front of the gate. We have an entryway trellis and he had connected it to the sides of the archway, with no way around it.  I collided with it in the pitch dark last night, but was too preoccupied to do more than navigate through it.  Then I forgot about it.  

By the time I get to the scene, good-natured Terry has managed to untangle himself. But to my horror, a laughing Kevin is now brandishing a baseball bat at him. Argghhh, is that my son?

Terry is a Karate teacher with a black belt, so the boys think it’s great fun to attack him in the mornings to see what he’ll do. But a baseball bat is most definitely over the top, so I use my best “don’t even think about it” voice and admonish Kevin, while a grateful Terry whistles to the dogs and quickly makes his escape.

It’s 8:30am. Only 11 1/2 half more hours to go ’til 7 year old bedtime. After breakfast, I fortify myself with another cup of coffee, remind the kids that they are absolutely not to disturb me unless there’s blood, and go upstairs to try and get some work done.

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I glance at the clock on my computer, which says it’s 12:03pm. Whoo-hoo, I made it to the afternoon! I only had to break up 16 fights, feed them 9 times, and confiscate 6 harmless objects masquerading as guns. Kevin turns everything into a gun, from a popsicle stick to a hairbrush.

Then I feel something plop into my lap. I look down. It’s Tessa, staring unwaveringly at the ball she has just deposited. She has recovered from her morning run and is now ready to play ball. I can tell you with absolute conviction that there has never been another herding dog as obsessed with chasing a ball as Tessa.

She doesn’t fetch the ball, mind you, she’s no retriever. She chases it down because it’s escaping from the herd! Then she brings it back only so she can chase it down again. And again. And again. That miniature Australian Shepherd runs like greased lightning. She leaves every other dog in the dust. It’s her job, you see, and she takes her job very seriously.

Sometimes her job interferes with mine. She won’t take “no” for an answer.

It’s an endless dilemma: I can’t toss the wet dirty ball off my lap, because that only encourages her. She chases it down and brings it back again. Plop–into my lap. 

And I can’t set it down somewhere; she’s incredibly agile–and persistent–and can get it wherever I put it. So it comes right back. Plop. I can’t hold it out and say “No!” Or–you guessed it–she snatches it out of my hand and–Plop. I keep threatening to take her to ball-a-holics anonymous: “Hi, my name is Tessa and I’m a ball-a-holic.” -Plop.

Ick. Wet dirty ball is not a lap companion. I sigh and decide to take a break, grabbing the ball thrower and going outside to drive her into a state of exhaustion so I can get some work done.

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It’s 2:20pm, and I’m working diligently away at my computer, with the boys playing quietly just outside my door on the second story landing. 

The stillness is shattered with a thunderous CRASH!!!!

I leap out of my chair and fly out to the landing with my heart beating wildly, as I yell “what happened?” Kevin points over the railing to the first floor below . . . and there lies the antique ceiling fan with the delicate stained glass lights . . . I look frantically around downstairs, and spy Alex, well out of the way, thank goodness. I breathe a sigh of relief as I look up at the empty space where the fan used to be . . .

With the same magical thinking that welcomes Santa and the tooth fairy, they thought it would be fun to throw blankets over the railing to the floor below, to cushion it so they could JUMP?!!  But the blankets caught on the ceiling fan and tore it down.

Only 5 1/2 hours to go.