The boy’s 100th day of the 3rd grade is Tuesday. Each kiddo in the class has been asked to bring in 100 pieces of a snack, and I suspect that they’re going to combine each environmentally unfriendly plastic baggie’s worth of 100 munchies into a full bowl of snacks.
Sort of like the biggest bowl of party mix ever, with 100 raisins, 100 goldfish crackers, 100 Froot Loops, and so on. The teacher has asked that the kids bring in healthy snacks, so we’re sending M&Ms. Milk (chocolate) + Antioxidants = Healthy Snack.
And the timing couldn’t be closer, as this, my friends, is the 100th post on this blog.
Which clearly means that I’ve stuck with it longer than I ever expected. I’m notorious for starting fun things, and then leaving them on the side of the road for dead.
Take scrapbooking. When the boy was a tiny mite, I decided that scrapbooking was going to be my hobby, and I had enormous plans to complete one wonderful scrapbook each year, filled with glorious pages, and Hubs and I would look back on all the old scrapbooks a few years down the road, and we would sigh and smile over how cute the little man had been when he weighed fourteen pounds, and Hubs would say, “Mama, your scrapbooking abilities are stellar, and I’m so glad that you took the time to labor over these pages with love, to assemble a book of memories for our boy to cherish forever.”
But then real life happened, and sometime after the four thousandth dirty diaper that I changed, and the millionth load of laundry that I washed, and the six hundred and twelfth time that I ventured into Wal-Mart for groceries, and the thirty squillionth time I vacuumed the floors, I realized that keeping up with the house and the baby were going to wear me out until I looked like a sweaty racehorse with mange, so I never got much scrapbooking accomplished.
Also, my Type A+ personality couldn’t handle a scrapbook that was only PARTIALLY finished. To this day, that lone, partially-filled scrapbook haunts me. It calls my name in the dark of the night, whispering, “Mama. You never finished me. You made it to the boy’s first Easter, and you quiiiiiit, Mama.” The incessant howling of that scrapbook in the middle of the night caused me endless quantities of guilt, and I finally decided that it was ridiculous for a single item to have so much power over me.
Hence, I quit scrapbooking. Quit cold turkey, and I never looked back.
And Hubs? Let’s just say that Hubs is not necessarily the type to be impressed with glorious craft projects. Oh, Hubs loves to come across a stray picture of the boy, age 3, with his little blue blanket wrapped around his head and secured with his belt, because he was pretending to be a shepherd visiting Baby Jesus, but he’s just as happy to see the picture as a lone picture as he would be to see it in the middle of a double-page layout worthy of being photographed and featured in a nationally-known scrapbooking magazine.
Clearly, I suffer from commitment issues, which makes finally reaching the 100th post on this blog a bit of a milestone. I’m actually impressed with my own stick-to-it-ness.
To do a complete 180 and face another direction of topic now, our weekend was filled to the brim with adventure and activity.
We managed, as a family, to wreck the Suburban at the onset of the weekend, as we drove the boy to school Thursday morning. Hubs was driving, the snow was falling like mad, the roads were icy, and all I have to say is that uncontrolled intersections are boogers on slick roads. The other gal didn’t see us at all, as she was driving with tunnel vision and had decided to just head straight through the intersection with a fierce determination to make it to work on time. Hubs and I saw her with plenty of warning, but even at 20 miles an hour, the old Suburban wasn’t going to come to a stop. We slid. We spun. We kissed our Suburban’s grill into the front fender of her mini van. The responding officer simply stated, “You’re the third no-fault accident I’ve responded to in one of these uncontrolled intersections this morning, and it’s only 8 AM. These roads are rotten-slick.”
Yes. Rotten-slick about summed it up, Officer.
And also? Rotten-dents. My poor Suburban (bless her heart) is dangling her front, left headlight, so that it looks like her eyeball is hanging out. Literally, I have a bulb suspended from a wire, and that bulb points down. So really? When I drive at night now, I can see every spot on the asphalted highway three feet in front of my grill. If I flick to my brights, I can make the asphalt shine like the Star of Bethlehem.
On Saturday morning, we decided to get up early again, because, for five weekends straight now, that has been our usual choice. Why waste time snuggled down in my Sleep-By-Number bed, with the comforter pulled up tight around my chin, and drift in and out of that light, early morning slumber that feels like warm sand on your toes, when you can simply jump out of bed, stumble to the bathroom, and get a shower going before the sun has even peeked over the horizon?
Small Town, USA is about a two-hour drive away from Much Bigger Town, USA, and Hubs and I had decided to dash up there and do some shopping, because Much Bigger Town has a mall. And a Target. And also a Red Lobster. And we do not have those wonderful buildings in Small Town, USA.
And oh! How I love me some Target!
So, with a bit of fog, we set out for Much Bigger Town, USA, and the roads were dry. Dry as a set of bones that’ve been resting on the sand in the Sahara desert, with a high wind coming out of the North. (Or the West. Or whichever way the wind blows when you’re standing in the Sahara.)
And, as we got to the halfway point on our journey, the snow hit. And when I say the snow hit, I mean that the good Lord decided that the day held all the right ingredients for a wicked-good ground blizzard.
And, people, rest assured, I have never hit black ice in the entirety of my big amount of years, until Saturday morning. We skidded on the interstate. We fishtailed on the interstate. The adrenaline shot through my body so hard and so fast, I gave myself a migraine, of the worst kind, and I might have dribbled a tiny bit from sheer fright, but (shout a praise out to Jesus), I didn’t smash the brakes, which was a miracle in itself, as I am a “smash-the-brakes” sort of girl. I love me a good brake-smashing event. Thankfully, though, all those years of my dad and Hubs screaming into my ear, “Do not hit your brakes when you’re sliding on ice” finally sank in, at just the right moment in my life, and we stayed in our own lane on the interstate, and all was eventually well.
And also, whenever the semi trucks (bless their hearts) would roar by us, they’d throw snow and slush everywhere, until the world was a white bit of misery, and the visibility would drop to a negative number, while my blood pressure would raise to a number that’s similar to how many drinks I’ve had at Starbucks over how many M&Ms I’ve eaten in my lifetime.
My nerves…they were spent.
Traffic was down to 45 and 50 miles an hour on the great interstate, and I looked at Hubs and said, “I am done. I am turning around, and I am going home.”
So, yes. We got up very early on a Saturday morning, with enormous plans to push a cart at a leisurely pace through the aisles of a Target store two hours’ away from us, and we simply ended up driving a three-hour round trip. On bad roads. With black ice.
When we got back to Small Town, USA, with absolutely no loot from Target stuffed into our dented Suburban, Hubs decided to help my dad install a new faucet on my mom’s kitchen sink.
And today? Today we hosted a Super Bowl Party, with enough food to sustain a high school football team through their entire fall sports season. At last count, we had eleven grown-up people and thirteen small children.
What’s funny about today was simply this: While we were getting ready for church this morning, I announced to Hubs, “You know, we’re throwing a Super Bowl party, and everyone is going to come, and it’s going to be a really grand time, but I don’t even know what two teams are playing.”
I saw Hubs close his eyes when I made this big announcement, and I know that Hubs secretly whispered in his head to Jesus, “Lord, I am going to stay with this woman, regardless of her horrid, very awful flaws. Amen.”
And also? I watched exactly two minutes of the Super Bowl. One hundred and twenty seconds. It’s because all the girls gathered around my dining room table, and we spent the entire afternoon telling one another the “how-we-met-our-husbands-and-how-they-proposed” stories, until we whooped with enough laughter to wake one of the sleeping babies and send him into a full-throttle, screaming fit. Thank you, ladies. I haven’t laughed like that for quite some time. Hands down, Bev wins the proposal story contest, as poor Ed gripped the steering wheel on his car, right before he popped the big question to her, and announced, “I think I’m going to have a heart attack right here.” Of course Bev was worried, and when Ed jumped out of the car, she thought he was indeed dying, but he raced around to her side, threw open her passenger side door, got down on one knee, and asked the big question.
And he didn’t have a heart attack. But the colorful story made us throw back our heads and laugh until our sides hurt. And also until Baby David woke up in a full-on, very noisy protest, because he had planned to sleep a little longer than we’d let him.
And also? I am currently suffering from the heartburn, because the pizza apparently did not like me so well. I’m told that this is a sign of aging.
And the other thing that’s a sign of aging? Becoming completely worn out with a weekend that is so dang full of adventures, so I am off to bed.
Happy Sunday night, y’all.