Actually, supposedly a “robot” that Big Bro made first day of robotics science camp. The place I stuck the boys, so I could recoup from our New Hampshire lakeside rental escapade which is never really a vacation, outside of playing house than keeping house, with mismatched cheap juice glasses and chipped plates. And keeping Gramma upright, and keeping the peace between two brothers whose favorite past-time is to fight over a canoe paddle.
So what. So what if I’m spending bucks on “robot” camp so they can come home with putty robots and this:
In their defense, yes, it is a styrofoam cup, but it does light up when you place it over some flashlight flashing thing.
Do you see/read robot here? I see syringes and a porcupine/dinosaur. I didn’t ask.
But who cares. Because I get needed down-time home alone with only the dog. To face an incredibly dirty house, a broken faucet and today, a leaking air-conditioning system leaking through ceiling from attic…
Not that he goes to work particularly happy these days, anyway; due to lack of personal days left, we were forced to cancel my real vacation, a few days at a resort where I don’t even have to play house; martinis are served to me in unchipped glasses. Meals replete with matching flatware.
Now that the house is quiet and I’m waiting for the air-conditioning man, I feel like this:
a once flowering NH lake lily, now sad and droopy, because I feel guilty that I’m not missing my beloved boys; sad because Daddy went off angry and sad himself over waterlogged keyboard; sad and a little angry myself my small and spindly boys are now playing football:
Last night was first practice in what they proudly call their “armor.” Little Bro’s little legs still look like his toddler ones, and his head waggles in his newly-fitted helmet as if his neck might snap. My armored football child still sleeps with blankie. Big Bro is football-armored now too. And even though Big Bro is even more spindly, as well as a good two inches shorter than Little Bro, at least he no longer sleeps with Bunny.
So I’m stuck here alone in my “down-time” with stink of the dog’s meaty rawhide bone as Poodle Pup gnaws beneath the table, to worriedly gnaw over snapped necks, and whether I boiled and molded boys’ mouth guards correctly (which my dentist nicely pointed out had less to do with teeth than concussions):
Feeling a rawhide headache coming on, I try not to glance out the window at the neglected yard, the vines strangling my favorite lilac tree. And to ignore the ominous iPhone texting alert; my mother and her long-time “aide,” really her cleaning lady of 20 years, can bicker like sisters, so I get texts about how said aide is hurt because my mother didn’t like said aide going into the coffee can where said mother keeps her cash in the freezer to retrieve her weekly pay; which, stupidly, was my idea, to make life a little less complicated. Bad, bad idea, Daughter. Bad daughter.
I would like to live on an airplane. Where on command you must turn off cellphone. Turn off not only said aide but other said aides all who like to text me that they don’t like each other very much.
On a brighter note, the boys actually did come home with something looking a bit more robotic yesterday:
Alright, not exactly a robot – more like a sewing machine with a chute to spin down a top… I’m waiting for the robot they bring home that is sultry as Siri and will vacuum, clean out gerbil cage and sympathetically ask how many aide texts did I have to retrieve that day and serve me a strong martini because perfect robot will know I need one.
And if I do get said robot, and if the world will start being nicer to me, I might feel like this one day:
A decorative, however middle-aged, bespectacled cow hiding modestly behind a tree, but for all to admire.