Again, my ten-year-old boy had another creative brainstorm. Since he loves dogs, and he needs to earn some cash (those Beyblades don’t just buy themselves), he decided to launch Christian’s Dog Walking service.
Well….uh….ok. Profound words from Mom and Dad.
After deliberation, we told him he could distribute his flyers just to the neighbors up and down the street. Which he did. The first day of distribution was done with scotch tape, which didn’t reap any rewards. But the second day was hand delivery. Bingo. He got his first customer.
A Great Dane. …BOSS (literally, and probably figuratively as well). But a sweet Great Dane.
With trash bags in pocket (after all, his flyer said he’d pick up poop too), he left the house for his first job. We were proud of his enterprise and responsibility. (He’d even given up a trip to Grandma’s because he’d committed to walking the dog).
My boy walked that dog once. Then he went over to play with the dog in his yard later, and was commissioned to come back in the evening for another walk. He was even paid in advance – a dollar for each walk.
As evening approached, he set out once again, trash bags in pocket. But on the way to his customer’s house, the 104-pound neighbor-dog had just gotten back from a frustrating, long visit to the vet. He was apparently in a very bad mood. He ran from his mistress, sniffed my little boy once, bit him on the leg, and ran off.
My boy kept walking to his customer’s house. Once the man found out what had happened, he told my boy he should wait on the walk; he should go back home to get doctored.
But lo and behold, as my little boy walked back by the neighbor’s house, the same dog ran up to him again. He screamed, and tried to hold his hand out to protect his leg, but…
Yes, you guessed it, the dog then bit his hand.
The bites were pretty bad, but thankfully not worse. No mauling or muscle damage, and he escaped stitches. Thank heaven for his customer who drove him back down the street to mom, and thank heaven for Care Now clinic, so people who have weird stuff happen to them after hours won’t have to sit forever in the ER.
So my little boy’s first day at work was both satisfying and brutal. But at least he earned some combat pay (Boss’s dad thought it was in order), and at least he got to skip his shower.
But unfortunately, he had to learn early on that some days work just really bites.
It’s scary when a four-year-old attempts tricks that are usually featured in a place like the Guinness record books. And sometimes funny. But always surprising.
My grandson ran up to his mother, giggling, anxious to show her the trick he’d just come up with. He put both index fingers into his nostrils (at least he wasn’t doing it with chop sticks for a walrus impression). He said, “Look what I can do,” and then he blew. And laughed some more.
My daughter thought it odd, and said, “Are you blowing air out of your ears?” Not really expecting an affirmative answer.
“No, Mom,” he laughed. “Out of my eyes! It tickles!”
“What?” my daughter asked. “Let me see.”
And sure enough, air came through his eye sockets, and was tickling his eyeballs.
You might ask if he’d seen the man on TV who could drink milk, and make it shoot from his eyes. And the answer would be “yes”.
I know – I have a very talented family. Scary to think what his next trick will be.
What can I say – I tried really, really hard to be more of a “partyer” this New Years (at least for the sake of my younger kids, who like to stand on the front porch and bang pots and pans at midnight while drinking sparkling cider fake champagne. I went home from work (via the grocery store) and snagged an hour nap – my preparation for a night of wild and crazy carousing waiting for midnight to roll around.
On our way to dinner, my husband told me that he’d had a New Year’s revelation during the day. I anticipated that he was going to tell me of a soul-searching issue he had been contemplating, finally coming to a decision. Well, my high hopes for something inspirational were good and all that, but he announced that he’s finally come to a decision about what to do with the back yard. Wow that was a mind-blower!!
Dinner consisted of our family of fifteen (half of them kids) crammed into a private room, which was especially good for keeping the little “runners” at bay. After scarfing down a good supply of comfort food (chicken-fried chicken and cream gravy – yum), it was time to hit the road toward home. I was wearing more of my grandson’s food that he managed to get into his mouth – launching edible missiles his favorite dinnertime activity. Oh well, I didn’t need clean pants anyway.
I was determined to make it to midnight – I think I can, I think I can – my mantra every New Year’s Eve. 10:15 and counting…
I got home and broke out the sparkling cider fake champagne for the kids, complete with plastic fluted glasses. And it dawned on me – I’d forgotten to buy the requisite black-eyed peas. I searched my pantry and freezer high and low for the little buggers, even looked through the bag of 15-bean soup, but couldn’t find not a one. Had I just doomed my family to a year of misery? Oh well, I decided that at least my kids could legitimately blame their bad luck on their mother. Giving them a scapegoat was a pretty good New Year’s gift, I thought.
My lids were growing heavy – the champagne I’d bought in the hopes of revelry still sitting in my fridge. Comfy bed or champagne? Comfy bed or champagne???? Countdown – 11:00 PM.
Yep, I chose the comfy bed. I apologized to my eleven-year-old daughter for having such boring parents, and she said it was OK. Of course she then told me that the better answer would have been to disagree with me, but … the truth is the truth!
My seven-year-old crashed at 11:30. One down.
Then at 11:56, between drifting in and out of consciousness, I called to my daughter, and asked if she wanted to go to the front porch to ring in the New Year with pots and pans (our normal celebration of choice). But lo and behold, she said she was too tired. Two down. That was my signal…
Yep – you guessed it. I think I fell asleep at 11:59. Without champagne. Without drunken revelry. Without participating in the expected New Year’s hooplah. But I had a contented sleeping family safely tucked away, and what more could a middle-aged woman ask for?
So Happy New Year to all, and to all a good night!