We’ve transitioned to summer, which looks suspiciously like the last few months, except sweatier.
It’s still unclear exactly how college will go for M, but we’ve gotten more details, some of them good (the opportunity to ponder her choices for tutorial, which is their signature intro-to-college course), some of them not good (no intercollegiate athletic competition, which means her first soccer season won’t be much of a season). But she is glad to have a definitive date in mid-August when she’ll arrive and get a COVID-19 test that she’ll have to “pass” to move into her dorm room. She is in countdown mode. We have acquired twin XL sheets and a new comforter and other odds and ends. It occurred to me belatedly that one item to stock up on for the 2020 college first year is masks. We’ve ordered a couple different kinds to see if there’s a type that she likes better, and I’m hoping that if they’re cute it will be slightly less onerous to wear them. I’ll let you know if we particularly enjoy any favorites.
Meanwhile, poor J, well, like most of your kids here in New York, she has no clear idea of what the fall will look like. We had actually signed her up for the one volleyball summer camp that was going to happen this year–I didn’t feel too entirely comfortable about their social distancing measures, but we wanted her to have something to look forward to. Today it was canceled. Which was not unexpected. But still. Our school district shared a survey for feedback on online learning, and my feedback was not good. And I’m not optimistic about the fall. We are doing what we can to keep J from getting trapped in a pit of despair and/or the sofa cushions while watching too much TV. But it is a fine line between prodding and nagging, between encouraging responsible independent socializing and letting the kids go rogue, between reminding kids of their goals and talents and pushing aside what they want with our own agenda of parental preferences.
All in all, I’d say it’s a pretty delicate situation at our house. Either every single member of our family hates each other, or it’s just that we have a peri-menopausal woman, two teenage daughters, and a hopelessly outnumbered dad trapped together, facing a very bleak future during a pandemic. You know, poTAYto, poTAHto.
So. . . what else? I finished my Christmas scrapbook, and now I’ve moved on to dabbling in some embroidery.
Our washer died and we bought a new one. Actually, as a special treat, we were able to purchase the washer on the same day that we got some car repairs done. If you’re going to start spending random piles of money, may as well make a day of it. So far (knock on wood!), I like this dryer. It’s an upright but without the olde timey central agitator, which means when I open it, it looks like it’s about the size of my living room in our first NYC apartment. I feel like it would be possible for, like, 13 or 14 clowns to climb out of it. At the end of each cycle, it makes a little song which sounds to me like the soundtrack to leprechauns and fairies dancing in a dew-drenched meadow. Every time I hear it, I start hopping around and doing my creaky 35-year-old ballet moves. Then Cute W says, “I’m sure we could change that if you want to” and I insist that no, I like it, it makes me want to dance a jaunty jig. But J hates it. Finally, this morning, she explained that to her it sounds like the music that investigators might just dimly hear on an audio recording from the murder site of a psychopathic serial killer, like something on Criminal Minds. And I said, “That is super-dark, and maybe instead of finding fault with our new expensive washer, you should just stop watching too much Criminal Minds.” She cannot spoil this new washer for me. And I will take that perky little tune over the lame-ass dryer buzzer any day of the week. Which I do, really, because I am constantly washing everyone’s sweaty work-out clothes, new college linens, and cloth masks.
Possibly we all hate each other. Perhaps a psycho killer lurks. But I will dance on.