Sunday and "Napday" are synonymous

I woke up to an email from my flex-term professor.  What a way to wake up...Not long after that, B's stepmom called to fill me in on the particulars of B's sinus infection and, in the process, attempted to be loyal to her husband and cover up the fact that he blatantly lied to me about B's condition yesterday.  I hope she made herself feel better...because I didn't believe a word.  N left to go to church as I sat surrounded by books, papers, and my laptop.  Spring Break, although it's never really a "break" is over, folks.  Bring on piles of homework.

Oh joy.

I did all of the customary orientation steps that accompany any online class, took the quizzes, emailed my professor to let her know I had completed the work, and another email popped up.  Different professor, different assignments.  Sheesh.  When will it end?  Oh, right...  On or before May 16.  Not that I'm counting down.

I looked at the assignments due, noticed the due date was April 5, said, "Forget that!" and turned on the NCIS marathon on USA.  I flopped back on the couch, wrapped in my down comforter cape, and did not move.  Okay, I moved a little.  I made toast, drank a little orange juice, grabbed some water, and then flopped again.  And then I felt like I wasn't being productive, so I looked to see what else was due this week.

I showered.  I checked my email.  I got a call from N, begging me to not make him get a haircut, then told his dad what I expected his hair to look like.  I took a nap.

It was wonderful.

Fast forward to 8:00 pm, when I had to call to find out where N was since he DOES have school in the morning.  He walks in the door at 8:30, and I'm excited to see his hair.

Only I'm not.  Because his dad didn't take him to get it cut after all.  And then, before I know it, I'm contemplating letting him go to sleep with gum in his mouth, in hopes that it will fall out and get stuck in his hair and a haircut will be unavoidable.

Choking hazard.  Sometimes it's really not the most fun to be the responsible grown-up.  Besides, I'm the adult, he's the child...which means, we're getting his hair cut tomorrow.  And I don't care if that makes me the meanest mom ever, on the face of the planet.  At least he'll be able to see the damn baseball.

I feel a little like Joe Pesci or Robin Williams in the Snickers commercials, although, instead of a Snickers, I think I need my bed and the backs of my eyelids.

At 9:32 p.m.

Aubs