The Saturday Morning explosion

The morning is a quiet, grey watercolor. Outside, the rain is doing that rhythmic, soft dripping on the roof that makes you want to stay in pajamas until Tuesday. I’m sitting in the living room, cradling a mug of coffee and staring into the middle distance, watching the house slowly come into focus.

Then, I see the wreckage.

The floor is a battlefield of toy cars and Skylextric tracks. Some are on their wheels, some are flipped over like they survived a high-speed chase, and others are just scattered like a plastic bomb went off. It’s the visual remains of my son’s imagination from the night before.

I grab the broom, sweep the chaos into a pile, and drop it all into the toy bin. For exactly three minutes, I have peace. Then, the bedroom door creaks. My son is up early. There goes the silence, replaced by the familiar, underwater giggle of SpongeBob SquarePants.

As I sip my coffee, I remember the vow I made to myself yesterday: I am not driving anywhere this weekend. Not for bread. Not for milk. Not even if we run out of toilet paper.

The universe and I have had some “automotive friction” lately, and I’ve decided to resign from the road.

First, there was the shouting lady at the four-way stop. Then came Friday pickup—a literal nightmare of double-parked cars and reckless energy. I did everything right. I fetched my son, buckled him in, and waited for the crowd to thin. I checked every mirror. I looked for the kids who run without looking.

I was backing out at a snail’s crawl when—Bam.

I hit her. Not a car. A person.

I jumped out, heart in my throat, apologizing before my feet even hit the pavement. But she stopped me. She was wiping a “butt print” off my bumper—how kind of her—and insisted it was her fault. She’d been so busy shouting at someone across the street that she walked straight into my moving car.

I’m grateful I was moving slowly. It could have been so much worse. But the knife in the back (from the universe) and the worry of that moment keep scratching at my brain. From now on, I’m parking a block away. I’m done with the school-gate drama.

If the “car-collision-that-wasn’t” didn’t bruise my ego, the Swing Ball game finished the job.

My son wanted to play, so we played. I got whacked with the racket twice and pelted by the ball three times. This morning, my body is staging a formal protest. My arms ache, my legs are stiff, and my rib cage feels like it’s been through a heavy-duty cycle in the wash.

I am officially too old for sports that involve tethered projectiles.

I’m looking out at the rain and thanking my lucky stars. If it keeps up, I have a legitimate excuse to stay on the couch and avoid any further physical activity.

Out of nowhere, my son walks over and hands me a tiny Valentine’s Day card. It’s the size of a business card, featuring two bears and a heart.

“This is for you,” he says, beaming. (One whole week later.)

Then comes the fine print. “There was a lollipop and a cookie, but I ate them. You can have the card.”

“Wow,” I say, looking at the empty-handed bears. “Thanks, bud.”

It’s the perfect summary of motherhood. You get the sentiment, but someone else always eats the cookie.

I’m sitting here with my sore ribs, my cold coffee, and my paper card. The house isn’t quiet anymore, and the floor will probably be covered in cars again by noon. Things change, people change, and sometimes the schedule just disappears into the rain.

So, my to-do list for the rest of this rainy Saturday is wonderfully short: avoid swing ball, avoid driving, and avoid drama. I have no interest in fighting with the world today. Instead, I’ll find a quiet corner and just sway to the silence for a while.

It’s “me time” now.

Maybe I’ll schedule some posts for next week or play around with some logo designs—not because I have to, but just for the fun of it. Things change, people change, and sometimes the best schedule is the one you make up as you go.

Happy Saturday! (Make good choices.)