The Reason

I’ve been a housewife for 13 of the past 14 years and folks, I know soap operas paint a lovely picture, but this life ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Harriet Nelson and June Cleaver were the women of homemakers and they did it all while wearing skirts and pearls and sensible pumps.

Folks, you probably have figured out that there isn’t a one of us here at the RHOK that lives the calm, organized life of the 1950's TV housewife. Well, maybe Mrs. Robinson, but no one’s really sure about her. She is a mystery, that woman.

Yesterday morning I woke up at 3:30 to the sound of crashing thunder, torrential rain and a beautiful lightning show - and the realization my daughter and I would not be going on the 2nd grade field trip that day. I, however, had promised to take the kids to school and not make them ride that horrible bus (Oh, the HORROR) so I got up and started the morning routine of coffee, shower, makeup, tame the mane and bark out orders to the school-age minions. And since the littlest Nesbitt wasn’t going to school anyway and our day was essentially plan-less I called the doctor to get her an appointment to see about this cough she has had for nearly two weeks. Oh and have I mentioned I babysit a not-quite-2 year old?

We got back home after the school run to eat a bite of breakfast (Froot Loops in a old butter dish for the toddler while Oswald the Octopus cavorted on the screen) and ingest more coffee and while I was trying to figure out a way to get the coffee directly into my liver I got a text from Mrs. Hart asking me where my post was for that day. ACK! Our calendar has been rearranged a few times lately and I just flat overlooked a post. And because of the weather I had no internet at home so I was helpless on this end. Several crazy texts and a calming phone call from Mrs. McGillicutty later and all was right in RHOKlahoma again. Then it was off to the doctor’s office. In the rain. While dragging a 2 year old and an 8 year old. An 8 year old who likes to talk. A lot. About nothing. All. The. Time. Really, there are times I just nod a lot.

Now....also know I didn’t do any of this in pearls. Or heels. Or a skirt. (I haven’t owned a skirt since 1997.) I did it in my comfy jeans, Adidas and a Sooners hoodie, my hair pulled back in a clip and a minimum of makeup. June Cleaver would’ve gasped I was seen in public in such a way.

Fast forward past the doctor appointment to where I went to my mom’s office to partake of her high-speed internet so I could order my husband some golf clubs. Then we got a lead on some cheaper golf clubs. So I didn’t need the internet anyway, but Mom bought us lunch so it wasn’t a total loss.

Upon arriving home Mr. Nesbitt was disappointed I hadn’t ordered his golf clubs, but I offered to accompany him to the sporting goods store to look at a set there since we’ve been on The Great Golf Club Quest for weeks now. He hesitated - probably because he thought I looked a little unstable what with the sweatshirt with snot smeared down one sleeve, my hair resembling Phyllis Diller’s and eyeliner on only one eye because I forgot I had makeup on and had rubbed my eye earlier. He was desperately looking for a way out when I got a text from a friend asking us to dinner.

GROWNUP DINNER! Anyone with children knows the value of a good grownup dinner. Heck, there are times I've been grateful for a bad grownup dinner.

I made a quick call to my mother who gladly agreed to watch the kids (she must've heard the depseration in my voice) and I skipped merrily down the hall to fix my hair and makeup, put on a bra that actually hoisted the ol’ girls into position better than the one I had worn all day under that oversized sweatshirt and I put on earrings. My ears cried a little, they’re so used to being left naked these days.

I had a manic little smile on my face all the way to Mom’s because if something had happened at that point to ruin our dinner plans I would’ve just lost it right there in the car. Fortunately we made it out of town and managed to buy him some golf clubs AND make it to dinner just exactly on time.

We sat for two hours in that restaurant with our adult friends and had conversations that not once involved telling anyone to stop touching the one sitting next to them. I didn’t one time have to give anyone the skunk-eye for rolling their eyes at me. And I didn't have to cut up anyone's meat or beg them try a vegetable.

The drive back to town was quiet and Mr. Nesbitt and I chatted quietly, held hands and soaked up the last few minutes of couple-dom. We picked up the kids who were sleepy and quiet and well, I have to admit that I think I felt a little of the euphoria that June Cleaver must’ve felt. I smiled to myself and thought, “Oh yes, this is why I do what I do. This is it. These quiet moments when everyone is harmonious and we’re all happy and no one is fighting...” I sighed a deep sigh of contentedness and took my husband’s hand as we drove home in the quiet.

We pulled in the driveway, roused the sleepy kids and turned the key in the door while Mr. Nesbitt unloaded the precious golf clubs from the trunk. As I turned on the entryway light one of the kids, no longer in a sleepy stupor, screamed, “THERE IS A FROG IN THE HOUSE!!” and the next few moments involved me screaming at my husband, the youngest jumping onto furniture, the boy looking for his BB gun and the eldest trying to find a cup so she could trap the frog. Mr. Nesbitt came in, tossed the clubs valiantly aside and immediately came to the rescue of his family.

I stood in the entryway, partially frozen by my fear and loathing of frogs and partially by the way that moment of cacophony and chaos and noise and frightened jumping aphibians.....well....

I realized something. That was the reason I do what I do. The craziness of it all. The noise. The chaos. The squealing. The boy running for a gun, the girls screaming....and me being there to enjoy it all.

Pearls or not.

Oh, and the golf clubs? They are left handed. Mr. Nesbitt? Isn't.

~~Mrs. Nesbitt

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