Joe doesn't always see the humor in things. Like yesterday morning for instance.
My husband limps in after working a 24 hour shift at the firehouse and tells me he doesn't have a call for his second job (a rarity). Great! Now he can get the boys packed up and out the door for their first day of Sports Camp! As he smears peanut butter across frozen bread (which is a great way to save money when there's a sale on bread - it freezes beautifully) and packs swimsuits, his mind arrives at a singular idea: he would like a nap. Today please.
For once, I see the guy's point. He worked Father's Day and just about every other day this month. His allergies have left his entire face a tad swollen and his eyes look bloodshot. He can obviously use a break. So after camp drop-offs, a nap it is!
Just grab me a gallon of milk on your way back, eh, honey?
A half hour later, he is opening all the windows in our bedroom (the air-conditioning is still out). Joe sets the ceiling fan on high and tucks in for a good long slumber.
Right as his head hits the pillow, the earth shakes and this horribly loud screeching and thumping noise freezes everyone in their tracks. I look out the window. A huge truck is in our alley (right under our bedroom window) and a bunch of men with chainsaws are hacking off loose tree limbs and dropping them into a giant wood chipper. I hear Joe shout something that only Joe can say with such unique aggravation and near homicidal rage:
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE F&*CKING KIDDING ME!
The truck remains directly under our window for hours. By the time it moves to the next house, I am starting to see the blog-potential of this turn of events and grab the camera:
As each new tree limb is cast into the giant chipper, Joey starts to cry. I also hear some dogs howling in the alley. It is like a symphony of cacophonies. Joe's bedroom rantings begin to outplay the deafening chipper. To save Joey from learning too many questionable words at age 3, I opt for an emergency visit to Atheist-Friend's house. Plus, she has coconut cake.
After a few hours, I pick up the boys at camp and head home. My husband is whipping up some fantastic chicken in a mad hurry as we have our final stop: soccer practice!
When we arrive there, it takes 20 minutes to find the correct field. Once we do, we are handed the bad news: our volunteer soccer coach has quit and apparently moved to Florida...over the course of the last week. During all the confusion, someone spies Joe kicking the ball around with the boys. Before my husband can say "wood chipper," a whistle is thrown around his neck and he is christened AYSO soccer coach.
Joe of course tries to explain that he can't commit to any regular coaching given his wayward schedule. No worries! Just whenever you can make it, sir. These guys are good. Had they only been outside our house a few hours earlier, they might have reconsidered such a rash appointment of a man so well-versed in the blasphemous arts.
So with no nap, watery eyes, and shaky wood-chipper nerves, Joe leads a bunch of 5-7 year olds through a series of drills and scrimmages. You can't help but love a guy willing to spontaneously coach soccer wearing sandals and his Breast Cancer Walk shirt.
On the way home, Joe wonders if I could get the boys in bed so he could meet up with some of his cousins for the final innings of the Cubs-Sox game.
It is the least I could do. Plus, I have a blog to write.