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Destinations, Dreams and Dogs - International adventure with a fast-track family (& dogs) of Old World values, adopting the Russian-Italian-American good life on the go…!

History Repeats Itself

Wasn’t it just a couple of weeks ago that our younger son headed out with us on a mini getaway and we arrived, to find him wearing the rattiest tennis shoes known to humanity?  Well, apparently I’m asleep on the job again….

(And all this from someone who just found that half of our daughters’ clothes are missing.  The only things they appear to have are two sizes too small.  Yet used items purchased from Goodwill for a down-and-dirty outdoor work project are prominently featured in their closets….  Their comfort levels are making me uncomfortable.)

I check and recheck.  I have the kids present themselves for inspection.  The hemlines and necklines are appropriate.  The colors seem to match since I have to match them, myself.  Never did I imagine that they would be hiding accessories from my sensible scrutiny.

But it’s true.  This time it was 11-year-old Sashenka, who arrived for our two-day getaway, proud as a peacock.  We had reviewed all of the children’s clothes, checked and rechecked shoes, underwear, pajamas, clothing, outerwear.  It would be rather chilly, so we had to pull out heavy sweaters and winter coats for evenings.  As history repeated itself, simply with different actors, my daughter decides that she must spend the $5 burning a hole in her… ratty purse.

My eyes alight upon the most tattered bag this side of the Salvation Army’s discount grab bin.  I am about to faint.  (I must faint easily.)

“Sashenka, you need to tell me when something is becoming old and falling apart….”

“Oh, yeah, right.”  There is no recognition whatsoever that normal people don’t walk around with dirty and dilapidated items strapped to their bodies.

It’s not enough to examine her nails that she loves to chew morning, noon, and night.  Mostly night, when we can’t stop her.

It’s not enough to send her back to the shower when, after her daily shower, her hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week:  oily and stringy.

“Sashenka, you need to put shampoo all over your head, scrub it in, and rinse it out.  Just standing in the shower for a long time doesn’t do it,” I suggest.

We talk with them about proper hygiene, we have the occasional sniffing of the hands for any evidence of soap being used in the last year or so, and we try our hardest to focus on internals of being pleasant and polite, as well.

All for naught.  The peeling patent pink purse has destroyed all of our hard work.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it could be brought down in one.  Reviewing my photos, I see the pink purse in every. single. photo.  While strolling, while hiking, while shopping, while tending to little Grisha the Scottie.  Not that anyone could tell that it was ratty from a distance.

But still.  Even Grisha has his standards, and Misha wasn’t feeling well.  This could have pushed him over the edge.

I tried to rise above, really, I did.  I was going to enjoy my two days away, no matter how hard they attempted to destroy it and keep me in a constant-shopping-for-them-state.  I held my head up high and aimed to think happy thoughts.

These were good kids.  They just happened to like things that emerged from garbage bins if given their choice.  Any opportunity for free rein had to be reined-in.  I averted my eyes from said bag whenever it was within my range of sight.

On the way home, I bought her another bag.  A small black one to sling this way or that.  She likes it.  I told her we need to burn the pink one.

S’mores, anyone?



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