The end?

Okay, so I’m officially 21,389 words behind. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep up this semester, and it turns out it can’t. At least, not while trying to wedding plan on top of teaching. It’s a shame, too, because I am really excited about this story. It’s coming out better than I ever dreamed!

So for now I’m sticking a fork in it. Perhaps I’ll revist Sherri et. al next fall when things have calmed down a little bit for me. Thanks to all that have supported me! I definitely appreciate it!

Behind

Thanks to a very busy weekend, I am a tad behind in my word count. 4,719 to be exact. I’ll try to make up for it tonight in the LC, provided it’s not busy (history’s proven this semester that it’s not on Monday nights). I’ll check in then!

6

After Kylie left, I went upstairs to see what Miranda was up to. I knocked on the frame of her bedroom door to announce my presence. She looked up from her desk, her back to me, and looked over her shoulder and the sound of my knock.

“Hey, Mom,” she said, taking the ear buds out of her ears and pausing her faux pod, the name she had given her non-name brand iPod.

“I just wanted to see what you were up to up here,” I said, scanning her bedroom quickly with an unintentionally critical eye.

I could see Miranda’s effort to keep her room clean was to quickly tuck things away on shelves, in drawers, or under her bed. I made a mental note to talk to her about this. But first, I had other intentions. I wanted to see if her homework was finished.

“Let me see your agenda book,” I said, cutting to the chase. Miranda and I had an agreement, whereby I’d be straightforward and up front with her if she would so kindly be the same way for me. It didn’t always work in either direction, but the fact that we usually made an attempt was enough for me.

“It’s in my backpack,” Miranda said, gesturing toward her open bag that was on her bed.

I found her agenda book pretty readily — Miranda was usually good about keeping her backpack organized, it was her room that left little to be desired — and I flipped to the current week and found her assignments for Friday.

Math: worksheet 3-B.

“Randy, where’s your homework folder?” I asked.

“Yellow one with M&Ms on it,” she said, barely glancing up from her desk. I quickly looked over her shoulder and saw that she was working on something in a notebook, perhaps an essay. Good.

I took out her homework folder and found the math worksheet. Okay, so that was present and accounted for. It was still on the “To Do” side, which meant she had at least something to occupy her time over the weekend.

Next, under her Math assignment, was her English homework assignment.

English: read Ch. 3 and 4.

“Read chapter three and four in what?” I asked.

“That’s more of a note to me,” Miranda said. “It’s for my outside reading project.”

“Aha.”

Social Studies: study packet.

Pretty self-explanatory, I thought. I checked in her homework folder and, right behind the Math worksheet was the Social Studies study packet.

Science: none.

Instantly suspicious, I checked the other days in the week. Other than minor things that she had checked off, and that I had seen her complete, it looked like there may have been no homework over the weekend for Science.

“So it looks like you have a free weekend when it come to your Science homework,” I said, hoping I sounded causal. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t doubting my eldest daughter’s honesty when it came to her assignments, but I didn’t want the wool pulled over my eyes either.

“Yep. You can even check my class’s web page,” Miranda replied, not completely buying my casual tone.

“Okay then, I will,” I said, putting her agenda book and homework folder back in her backpack. “There’s stuff for lunch downstairs if you’re hungry. You’d better get some of it before the boys come inside. I’m sure they’re all hungry.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

When I returned to the kitchen, it was as if all hell had broken loose. The veggie platter that Elisa had been snarfing from had been decimated, save for one small handful of sliced red bell peppers. The plate I had done up for deli meat was empty, as was the basket of wheat rolls that I had sliced, and there was a thin layer of mayonaise on the counter. I took out a Colorox wipe to clean the counter, and nearly slipped on the floor in front of the bar counter.

There was mayonaise on the floor!

“Marty!” I yelled as I opened the back sliding door.

“Easy, killer! I’m right here. What’s wrong?” Marty asked, coming into the kitchen.

Oops. I didn’t see him so close to the back door.

“Sorry. Did you or Erik supervise the boys when they made their lunches?” I asked.

“No. What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Have a look for yourself,” I said, moving out of his way so that he could come inside and see the carnage for himself.

As I turned around, I noticed that there was a huge soda spill near the sink. I tried not to have a meltdown.

“Oh boy,” Marty mumbled. He went back to the back door. “Hey Erik! You gotta see this!” he called.

Erik approached the house and, after seeing the look on my face, instantly paled.

“Uh oh. What’s up, sis?” he asked, moving to stand beside me just inside the door.

“Have a look,” I repeated, waving toward what had been my kitchen not that long before.

“Oh wow. Oh, wow. Just… geez, I’m sorry, D. Let me help clean up,” Erik said, making a move toward the sink.

“Not so fast, buckshot,” I said, grabbing my eldest brother by the back of his shirt. “Did you make this mess?”

“Uh, no,” he replied.

I turned to Marty. “I seriously doubt it, but did you make this mess?” I asked.

“Not a chance,” Marty replied.

I calmly walked to the sliding back door, opened it, took a couple deep breaths, then bellowed:

“NICHOLAS MICHAEL LOUGHLIN! JONATHAN WESLEY LOUGHLIN! ANDREW REGGIE LOUGHLIN! TAYLOR WILLIAM DECARR! DAVID ERIK MICHAEL DECARR! GET YOUR BUTTS IN THIS HOUSE, NOWWWWWW!”

I’ll give Nicky credit. At least he had the good sense to look guilty when he finally showed up at the back door. Andy, Jon, Taylor and David, on the other hand, were still in the midst of whatever battle had been raging out in the yard. That is, until they saw the look on their respective parents’ faces. Then their gazes ping ponged between Erik’s Marty’s, and my face, and only then did they mirror Nick’s expression.

“I don’t care who started it, who perpetuated it, or who was last. I am ending this now. Go wash your hands, then get to work putting this kitchen back together,” I said in a quiet and calm voice.

Without protest, Nick headed toward the downstairs bathroom to wash up. His cousins and his brothers, however, began to protest.

“But Dad!”

“Aww, c’mon Aunt Sherri!”

“M-oom!”

“I didn’t do it!”

“Honest! It wasn’t us!”

“Nope! You trashed it, you clean it,” Erik said, holding up a hand to all of their protests. Then he turned to his sons and pulled out the oldest threat in the book. “Just wait until your mother hears about this.”

Marty and I had to turn away to keep from giggling.

Once I was under control, I helped Erik locate cleaning supplies and the three of us adults took seats at the kitchen table while the boys began the chore of cleaning up after their messy selves.

“We were never like this, eh Sher?” Erik asked, watching as David ripped too many paper towels off the roll to wipe up the mayonaise on the floor.

“Not that I recall,” I replied, raising an eyebrow as I watched my youngest son trying to muscle the platter the veggies had been on into the sink. Thankfully, for him and for the sake of my platter, Andy came to his rescue.

“Oh, I bet that’s a load of bullsh–” Marty began. When three of the five boys — Nick, Andy, and Taylor — turned to look our way, Marty immediately turned red in the face and changed what he was about to say. “I seriously doubt you guys were saints.”

“I never said we were saints,” Erik said.

“We definitely weren’t,” I agreed.

“Like all the times Elisa snuck out to be with Mark,” Erik said.

“Or when we’d lock each other in different closets around the house on Circle Drive,” I added.

“Or what about the times you and Sam tried to skip classes and blamed each other.”

“How about the times you, Sam, and Mat would start forts in the back yard and dig huge gouges for moats.”

“Yeah, Mom and Mike never cared for our moats,” Erik mused, laughing and shaking his head.

“You guys were nuts,” Marty said.

“Like you and your sister never got into trouble,” I chided.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Marty replied.

“You haven’t seen nuts yet, I don’t think,” Erik said, shooting me a knowing look.

I cocked my head to one side like a confused puppy.

“What happens every year about this time? We haven’t had one in a while,” he hinted.

Then it dawned on me. DeCarr family football. Every November, usually coinciding with Thanksgiving, all of us would gather at my parents’ house, divide those of us old enough to catch a ball into teams, and play touch football in the back yard. Now that the oldest of all ten of us had spouses or significant others, not to mention the addition of eligible grandchildren, the two teams had expanded greatly. We hadn’t had a game in the last couple years, at least not since Marty, Sam, and I had moved back from California (I’ll get to that part of my story, I swear!). Mom and Mike didn’t think it was fair to hold the annual game without the complete family in attendance. Now that we were all back together again — Sam and Amber moved back to New York a little over a year ago — Mom and Mike were ready for us to continue where we left off.

I turned to my husband. “I’ve told you about our family football games,” I said. I patted the arm nearest me in a consoling way. “Aww, my hubby’s first football game. Spouses aren’t allowed to be on the same team, so I’m sorry that our team is going to cream you.”

Erik snorted. “Presuming we’re on different teams,” he said, gesturing between the two of us, “I don’t think that will happen, Princess. If my memory serves, every team you were on the last few times we played lost. Horribly.”

“Presuming, dear brother, that we are on different teams,” I replied, sounding very saccharine, “I refuse to let you win.”

Erik made a big show of standing up, shoving his chair backwards as he did so. “Okay, little sister,” he said, extending his hand for me to shake. “It’s on!”

I imitated his show of domination and shook his hand perhaps a little too vigorously. “Oh, it is so on!”

Marty coughed to get our attention.

“Relax a little, eh?” he said, nodding his head toward the kitchen.

Erik and I sat down and looked where he was nodding. All of our boys had stopped what they were doing and watching us with rapt attention. Taylor and Jon were whispering behind their hands. Andy was scowling, and Nick just simply stared.

“Nice job, boys,” Erik said, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah. Um, you’re almost done. Keep up the good work!” I added, swallowing a snicker.

Just then, Miranda appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

“What are you guys doing in here?” she asked, looking between the boys and us adults. She stood with her arms akimbo and a stern look on her face. “What happened to lunch?”

Erik, Marty, and I took one look at each other and lost it, dissolving into deep belly laughter.

“Sweetheart,” Marty managed to get out, “don’t ask.”