Lazy Sunday

Every week I look forward to my "Lazy Sunday."  I call it that because that's the way I picture it in my mind every week -- me lingering in bed, waking when I want, stretching out with a happy squee while I reach for a book to snuggle with for a leisurely hour before getting up to shower and have a quiet breakfast.  I love Lazy Sunday, my favorite part of the week.

The reality of Lazy Sunday is that it hasn't arrived yet.  It's an elusive fantasy born from lack of sleep, too much stress and too few life victories.

I just nearly... almost... had it today.  I woke up about 6:30 and managed to go through the Lazy Sunday ritual all the way up to a few pages into the book part.  The dog appeared and insisted I let her out because everyone else manages to sleep through her wet nose nudging them in the thigh or elbow.

From there the day proceeded like all the other days with neighbor boys knocking on the door every half hour until my boys finally wake up. I huddled behind the door where they couldn't see me in just a t-shirt and underwear promising, "I will send them over to your house as soon as they wake up. You don't need to keep knocking. Really, you don't."

Mr. Stinky

Around 9AM the boys finally woke and at 9:05 they ran back in to say they have caught a skunk in the live trap they set out the night before. They baited the live trap with three baby birds that had died during yesterday's Operation Rescue the Babies that Fell From the Tree. I'm sure they were expecting a squirrel or raccoon, but with boys rarely does anything go the way everyone expects.

I was on the phone with the Game & Fish guy a few minutes later while a neighbor boy decides it would be a great idea to throw sticks at the skunk to see if he could get it to spray them. I still don't understand the way children's brains work.

Mr. H from Game & Fish says, "I hear you got you a skunk in a trap..."

"Yes," I said, "My children have a present for you."

"Not for ME they don't!"

"Seriously? You're not coming to get this thing?"

"No ma'am. But I'll tell you how to do it over the phone or I'll drive over and tell you how to do it in person."

So I stood in the driveway watching the annoying neighbor boy throw sticks at the skunk trapped in the cage while the other boys dance around in a circle like Neanderthals on methamphetamine and Mr. H explains to me how I should take an old blanket and sneak up on the skunk and throw it over him.  Mr. H says the skunk won't spray us if he can't see us.

"Really? He won't?"

"Pretty sure he won't."

And then Mr. H suggests we fill a 30-gallon trash can with water and submerge the trap into the water, put the lid on it and wait "at least 8 minutes."

"Oh. Ohhh... so you're saying drown the skunk in a trash can full of water? Is that what you're saying?"

"Well, yes ma'am."

"No. We're not killing the skunk. Definitely not."

So after hanging up with the Game & Fish skunk killer, I'm explaining to Mr. Redneck next door (whose kid is throwing sticks at the skunk) exactly the full procedure that Mr. H explained. In the middle of the conversation, Mrs. Redneck interrupts and tells me her kids haven't had breakfast and would I mind driving her to the grocery store because their car is broken.

"I... well, we're sort of doing this right now. If you'll hang on for a few minutes, yeah."

Back inside the house I'm looking for a blanket I don't mind sacrificing in case the mission fails and I give it to my oldest son to hold until I get out there. Mr. Wendy and I begin arguing about discussing the actual procedure -- whether it is okay for the kids to be involved in extraction, the merits of releasing into the yard versus releasing into the wild, the mechanics of how the trap works and how many sticks should be involved in the process, which directions said sticks should point and in what order, and contingency plans for anyone who might fall victim to spraying.

By the time I get back out to the driveway where mobilization is supposed to occur I see Mr. Redneck running like his ass is on fire and five children running in what looks like eight different directions. Apparently during the "planning stage", Mr. Redneck enlisted my oldest son's help to release the skunk which then proceeded to chase my youngest son. His reasoning? "Well, he's a Boy Scout, so I trust him more in this situation." (Nevermind that he's nine and last time he and his friends were together they were using their Boy Scout tools and knowledge to try to start a fire on my front porch.)

My youngest tugged on my shirt and said, "Mom, he was nearly biting my ankle and he had his mouth open like this and was hissing!" To demonstrate, he opened his mouth wide and displayed every tooth he had.

Mrs. Redneck waited not so patiently on the sidelines for her ride to the store. I drove her there and sat in the soon-to-be 100+ degree heat and watched her walk toward the automatic doors -- her in her thin strappy sundress she had been wearing the day before which showed most of her cheap white bra. Her feet were bare and dirty on the bottom, her toenails painted a bright, startling blue.

I scrunched down in the seat, closed my eyes and started dreaming about my next Lazy Sunday.