Our most recent winter storm found him once again out of the state. Here’s the conversation we had:
Rob: I wish I were home. I miss you!
Me: I wish you were home, too. Your snowblower really misses you.
It especially missed him when I ran over the gravel portion of the driveway and pelted the whole side of the house with tiny rocks. I didn't bother to tell him that it also pelted the cars in the driveway. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.
I got about half of the driveway done before I ran out of gas – literally, not figuratively. I tried siphoning some out of my van but I couldn't get it to work. It would probably have taken less time to clean off the van and drive it down the road to the gas station, but I never said my laziness made sense.
When I came inside it looked like a cyclone had torn through my house. I was in shock for a few minutes, until my blood began circulating to my extremities again. And then I asked, "What the hell happened in here?"
And you know what they said...
"What are you talking about, Mom?"
It looked like someone had taken a hole punch to every piece of white notebook paper we have in the house and scattered the dots around the house. And then for good measure made a few dozen paper airplanes and left them lying around. There were plates, discarded string cheese wrappers, apple cores, orange peels, pretzels crushed into the floor, carrot pieces that look like they were chewed up and spit out, not to mention enough socks thrown around and on the family room furniture that it looked as though a Hanes factory exploded.
And that was just what I could see from the door.
The soaking wet winter gear was left in a trail from every door in our house to the television. A trail that each of them stepped on as they walked through the house.
But really, they had no idea what had happened. Each of them said that they didn't do it and each of them was shocked at being told to clean up anyway.
Must have been those other children of mine, Not Me and Ida Know.