You can hear the sounds of birds above the constant thump of the hammers and the whir of the power saws as 400 new homes go up and the hills go down.
The grass is green. Well, mostly green.
There are flowers blooming.
We have eaten fresh strawberries, fresh raspberries, fresh peaches and fresh plums. Now it is apples on all three apple trees and the orange tree is struggling along.
Not bad considering that the sprinklers failed miserably while we cavorted in Wyoming and the weather is as hot as I ever remember for San Diego.
There is only one problem.
The cat has fleas!
We have had cats before, and fleas before. And the classic solution is to put the animals outside and just spray the yard periodically and dip the animals when you do. That works. The fleas stay outside.
I can't do that.
There are no outside cats in my neighborhood. There are no strays. Small children are kept behind tall fences. They are called Coyotes and they have learned to run in packs. (Naturalists tell us that they have moved up the food chain and behave as the wolves once did.)
I couldn't do that to Midnight. He is half Siamese, half tabby and thinks I'm his mother. Almost.
He was about to be sentenced to death at 3 months of age when we rescued him and added him to the menagerie I have managed to acquire. Two rabbits, to be bred in the next spring, two puppies, one was lonely. The hampsters and fish are no more.
So, Midnight must stay indoors. The coyotes have already eaten two old cats we knew for years, Satan and Fluffy. They evidently got too slow or careless or something. That was two and four years ago.
We also had a rabbit go sour at Easter (it came in ill from the pet store - that's another story). The point is - I want no more deaths and certainly not preventable ones.
Now, Midnight doesn't like to stay indoors. He bolts between your legs and rushes into the grass at any opportunity. Do you have any idea of what it takes to see that the almost-13 and the about-to-be-7 year old close the doors?
I'm only human.
Fleas love cats. It takes them seconds to decide to jump on one.
I decided to rectify the problem and called the spray service. They called me back - Friday - at 7AM - and told me that they would be there at 7:30AM.
They are lucky I was out of bed.
I was not so lucky - my nightgown is see-through and I was barefoot and I haven't had my coffee yet! Thirty minutes is too short to do what we had to do, namely, wake up, eat, secure the house and catch the cat.
I tried.
My almost-13 wakes up in a somnambulistic stupor. I have to punch him in the stomach or ribs (gently) and duck. Talking to him does no good. Neither does shouting. The about-to-be-7 gets up easier but v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y.
I spill my coffee enroute. I'm washable.
The stairs were a race course as I supervised breakfast on the lower level and my dressing on the top level.
The cat hid.
The dogs had to be moved.
The rabbits had to be checked, fed and watered.
Cereal boxes and open food stuff had to be shoved into the fridge.
I had to find my underwear.
The about-to-be-7 is now in cub scout camp. He saved his chicken yesterday. He gets to go in late today. I grab his swimsuit and towel. I toss together a bag lunch - peanut butter and honey sandwich, granola bar, drink and sugar-free cookies. I am consistent.
We do this in 45 minutes - they are spraying the grass outside first.
We catch the cat.
I toss this assemblage into the almost-one-year-old Toyota van, newly polished and cleaned up after our trip, and head out to the pet cleaners that will dip and baby-sit the cat for the required four hours. The radio blares out about the accident on freeway number 8 - a trailer rig jack-knifed and traffic is a mess. A typical Friday in San Diego.
Breathless, we drop off the cat, I decide to take the almost-13 into the office and the younger one to camp, where modern times have caught up with them and they now offer extended day care (a few teenagers and a TV set). He'll survive.
It's 8:15 and the 15-163 freeway looks worse than usual - the accident has reached us. The Toyota dealer is right on the way. It's too early to drop the kid off. My tires look like someone took an ice cream scoop to them after the 3,000 mile trip to Wyoming and back. I need to fix them.
It is sensible to stop, ask Toyota about the tires and then get back on the freeway - right?
The traffic will be clearer and I will arrive at the same time - right?
Efficient - right?
Ha!
The dealer informs me that "tires wear like that".
"Not in 13,000 miles," says I.
"Well, maybe. Hmmm," says he.
I inform them that I was clever - I had a trip check performed before I left to drive aggressively all over the western states, up and down mountains, through hail, wind and heat.
They reconsider.
I have them.
They tell me that they will replace the tires under warranty - if I stay and wait for the car.
About two hours.
They have me.
By the time I get a ride home, get the other car, take the kid to camp, it will be time to pick up the car. Murphy's law also states that if I take the kid to camp and come back, they won't get done by noon when I have to get the cat.
I give up. I have no meetings. I have boy-scout material with me. We stay.
It is supposed to take them 2.5 hours. I exhaust the TV set, the newspapers, every magazine they own and take my kids out for a walk to the deli up the street before they hot-wire the big-wheel pick-up truck. It was their second choice after the van.
We do the boy scout stuff (what would you do if...) and eat junk food overpriced beyond reason and come back.
The car should be ready.
I note they are busy conferring around it. It is parked at an odd angle. I note these things as I venture forth to see if I have a chance at keeping this new schedule.
The car was not exactly ready.
What it was was wrecked.
What happens when you take a new hire and have him whip around the car lot in a van with a turning radius of 15 feet? Especially when the lot has posts that are painted brown and fade into the dirt? And when other makes and models of vans take half a city block to maneuver?
Let's see if we can figure that one out.
They are frantically rubbing the paint off the van door. They want it to look as good as possible. The dent runs the length of the van from stem to stern and there is no way for it to look good. This was my new car. It was being kept clean. It has no marks. We were very proud of it.
The about-to-be-7 is almost in tears. He wants to know if they can fix it. The almost-13 is aghast. I am proud of myself. I did not yell, scream or even get angry. Women who catch cats at 8AM stay calm all day.
The bill will be about $1500-2000, maybe higher. I didn't ask.
I inform them that I don't need another van as a loner. I don't even ask what they will do - I just assume they will fix it. I do need to drive my son to camp later that weekend so I do need to take it now.
They try to laugh - "It has happened before," says they.
"Oh, really?" says I.
"Everytime we hire a new lot boy," says they.
I have by now called my office. Personal Time. Isn't it great? Don't I wish I could use it for something fun?
We make arrangements for the van to come in on Monday and be ready by Friday. These dates are important because I have to drive the almost-13 to his camp on Sunday and pick him up on Friday night. I leave and take my badly dented van to San Diego and deposit the about-to-be-7 in time for the start of camp. He escaped the TV time.
Now the cat is ready so I race back and fetch him, sullen and angry and still slightly damp. The almost-13 had wanted to go to the office and play with the Daisy (computer) but I convince him he has chores and take him home.
We air out the house - and I instruct him to eat lunch outdoors - deposit the cat in his room to finish drying and I finally (unbelievable) get to go to work.
Amazing.
No one missed me. Inputs I was to receive today are no where to be seen. The authors of same are in hiding.
The VAX is slow.
There is no mail of note.
The child-support check is overdue.
I do what I can while I wait for data, clean up loose ends, schedule meetings, etc. Boring.
It gives me time to think about the car. I'd rather be busy.
I have no compunctions about leaving early. I should have called in sick.
Friday is the camp picnic and performance night. My little one has been rehearsing a skit all week. He looks like a little trooper with a sun-burned nose.
My older one is dressed, an accomplishment this summer. I throw together a picnic dinner - ham sandwiches, granola bars for the little one, sugar-free nutri-grain ones for the older one, apples off the tree and diet soda. I grab a coffee while the dogs are brought in to their night pen - they bark if left in the back one.
Besides, with them under the kitchen window, no one in their right mind would break into my house.
I manage to find all the pieces of the young one's cub scout uniform. He has a campfire this evening. He likes to perform.
We race down to San Diego through terrible traffic and I don't make it before the close of camp. The younger one is loose and climbing on the jungle gym. I did not get to see his last flag ceremony. For some reason, they finished early. Of course.
He is exuberant - this was water balloon day and he is wet, dusty and happy. I get him to sit for a minute and stuff some of his dinner into him.
Also part of his lunch.
Everyday he brings his lunch home. I keep trying anyway - just in case.
I am tired and I want to sit. They don't. The almost-13 still considers himself to be part of the camp even though he is now a full-fledged Boy Scout. They convince me to let them roam around the "wild area" and hunt for "Old Man Balboa". Every camp has its legends.
Normally, I go with them. I decide to sit it out. After all, they are getting older. I have to stop being an over-protective mom. They are going to be men. They remind me of this often. After a few minutes I see my children. The scout has his brother's head. Four other cub scouts have his arms and feet. He is not moving
. "What are they playing?" says I to myself.
"Sorry, Mom. We are going to the coreman," shouts my older one.
I will not panic.
I go to the little one and see blood, but not much. Not a good sign. I'd rather that they bleed when they fall.
I don't look further, but carry him back to the first-aid building (60 pounds dead weight, half the length of the camp).
The cub scouts scatter for the coreman, a navy man sent in to help with the boys.
My Boy Scout goes for my purse.
The core man says "Stitches," as he puts on antibiotic.
My little one is also calm (he helped chase the cat).
This child is filthy with dust and dirt from a day at camp, a layer coats his body. A goodly amount has gone into the puncture which I calmly note is about one inch in diameter and about three-eighths of an inch deep. Yuck.
Mercy hospital is nearby and I get directions.
The core man carries the little one to the driveway while I go for the dented van.
The directions are wild and crazy and after driving in a seemingly endless array of turns we reach Emergency.
I put him in a wheel chair. He is still alert and calm.
So am I.
I give them my insurance card - Murphy's law foiled again. I actually was carrying it.
We wait.
An emergency room is not a nice place to be.
The medics wear red scrubs and we get one with a beard. They wheel him in to a table and lay him out. They throw water at the little one's leg and leave us in a curtained alcove. There is screaming and moaning and much bustling around. The doctor looks at the wound and wanders off. I realize I should have gone to Children's but I don't know how to get there.
My older boy entertains his brother. He is hyper and cannot sit still so he is constantly thinking up stories and performing. The baby is being stoic. We get into laughing and general distraction to keep him from being too upset until the beard comes in and tells us we are having too much fun. He throws ice at my eldest. My eldest throws it back.
I am beginning to wonder where I have landed.
My little trooper survives stitches (5) and a dressing after much delay. He proudly shows off his bandages to a little girl waiting her turn as we wheel him out to the car. He does all this because I have promised that I will make up for the lost picnic and campfire by a fast trip to Mac Donald's and I will supply ice cream.
He loves ice cream.
They have their Happy Meals and their ice cream cones and I begin the drive home. I am glad I have the van to drive since I can lay the seat down and make my little invalid as comfortable as possible.
When I finally pull into the drive, the half eaten Happy Meal litters the floor and the patient is sound asleep, sprawled across the seat, the half eaten ice cream cone clutched in his sticky hand, ice cream dripping onto his dirty shirt. He is precious.
I tuck him into bed with a half hearted attempt at cleanliness since I decide that sleep is more important. He is a chubby cherub.
I send the older one to feed the cat.
The van is forgotten. A car has no importance when you have an injured child. Perspectives must be maintained. Things will be sorted out.
With both of them down for the count, I finally curl up with a cup of coffee. I savor this moment. It's finally quiet.
If this is Friday, I can't wait for Monday!
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