The Post In Which I Get Way Too Wordy and Boring

On Friday night, after having hauled the boy to soccer practice, where we discovered that The Boy + The Goalie Position = Wow!, Hubs and I turned our fine young son over to his buddy Enzo’s family for the evening, and we departed the soccer field with hoarse voices, what with having yelled and cheered so much, as Goalie Extraordinaire blocked everything like a concrete wall.

We may have just discovered the boy’s sweet spot on the soccer field, people! I think we may have the makings of one fine goalie living amongst us.

Enzo’s mama had rented Michael Jackson’s This Is It DVD for the boys to watch, and our boy was thrilled plum to hyperactivity, he was so excited to finally, finally be allowed to view the movie which he has been begging to see for weeks on end now. The same movie which Hubs and I weren’t really sure we could endure, from sheer boringness.

And since the boy was donning his dinosaur pyjamas at Enzo’s home and humming along with Smooth Criminal, Hubs and I decided that a genuine date was in order. The kind of date which involves dinner at a real restaurant, where no made-in-China toys are spotted on dinner plates destined for small children, and we decided to go see the movie Date Night.

On account of Michael Scott + Tina Fey = Seriously, Side-Splitting Funny.

I know, I know. It’s Steve Carell. But, people, he’ll always be Michael Scott to me.

What with having soccer practice run late, and trying to throw a toothbrush and a clean T-shirt into the boy’s overnight bag, we realized that, in order to see the 7:15 show, Hubs and I would have to postpone dinner, and eat it afterwards.

Our alternative was to go ahead with our dinner plans first, and then hit the 9:30 showing of Date Night, but my eyelids were ready for bed at 6:30, so I knew that I wasn’t going to make this version of the date. Clearly, I am…So. Much. Fun.

Do you want my critical review of Date Night? Since I’ve become such a fantastic movie critic, who uses my blog as a launching platform for grand reviews of Hollywood’s recent work? Go see it. Phil and Claire Foster (the couple’s characters in the movie) are genuine and real, and wow! They have a normal marriage in today’s America. And then they get involved in a night of running from the bad guys in their dress clothes, and they get to drive an Audi really, really fast, and I laughed until my side ached.

There’s your official review.

Scintillating, wasn’t it?

And after the movie? Well, Hubs and I had eaten our way through a medium-sized popcorn and a package of Milk Duds, which I spent the second half of the show trying to dig out of my molars, and we simply weren’t hungry for a fancy, date-like dinner afterwards.

As we were walking out of the theater, I politely asked Hubs if he’d like to venture across the street to a shady, seedy little bar, which I have never, ever, not even once been inside of, what with my high-class standards and all. Hubs readily agreed to a nightcap there, so I simply said, “Great; I’ll wait in the Suburban for you.”

So we went home.

Without having visited the bar, which I had no intentions of visiting in the first place. Ever.

Because we live on the edge of excitement like that.

Hubs and I are as predictable and comfortable and boring as Phil and Claire Foster in Date Night. But, you know what? We kind of like predictable and comfortable and boring.

On Saturday morning, I had to get up at the crack of yuck, so that I could venture down to the local youth-infested establishment and sign my one and only child up for summer camp. This is an annual pilgrimage that most every mama in Small Town, USA makes, at least once in their lives. Since enrollment for the various summer camps is limited, Small Town mamas are determined to get into the annual line earlier and earlier every single year, in order to insure that their children get signed up, so that their summers may be full and complete, and so that the mamas may be in complete compliance with the rules and regulations of the Mother of the Year contest.

Clearly, those rules state, “No line shall ever be considered too long for a dedicated mother to stand in, so that she may attain one of the twelve slots in any given summer camp program.”

Last year, I managed to avoid this annual pilgrimage to the line with no apparent end, because I sweet-talked the boy into attending only science camps, which were offered through another organization. They had this marvelous thing called on-line registration. This year, though, the boy found out about a specific book-making camp, where they will be writing a book, illustrating a book, and having it bound in hardcover style, and he was sold. Totally, completely, sign-him-up-or-he’ll-sob-until-snot-spurts-out-his-nose kind of hooked.

The boy said, “Mom, I have always wanted to publish a hardcover book!”

What’s a mama to do? Hubs and I set our alarm for the crack of yuck, and I showered before the sun had even risen, and I hauled Hubs down for our big-long-line primer at Starbucks. The only way that Hubs would agree to accompany me to the line that never ends was with a cup of caffeine that would make a blue whale shake with an overdose.

And the line? Although I had dreaded it, the entire morning turned out to be a ton of fun, because I think I knew all but six of the 200 parents standing in line. Because of this, Hubs and his barely-opened eyes and his mocha held our spot in line, by sitting on the floor and slumping forward a bit, in hopes of catching a couple more minutes worth of sleep, while I bounced up and down the line and talked and talked and talked with scads of people. Honestly? I had a blast! A genuine blast. Eventually, Enzo’s dad showed up in line, too, and since the line had snaked and turned and twisted, he ended up standing smack-dab across from Hubs, even though he was 60 people behind Hubs. This worked out well for Hubs, because he and Enzo’s dad talked about important things, like grilling steaks and competitive baseball leagues for small boys, while I worked my way up the line to talk about out-dated high school fashion trends, like the fringed Bon Jovi jacket, with my friend Bernie, who, bless her heart, was number 6 in line. Hubs was holding Spot Number 15 for us. He was a rock of spot-holding determination.

And Chris? Oh, people. Chris got in line at the very crack of yuck, when my alarm was first going off, because he was determined that his two adorable daughters would not miss out on a week or two of summer camp, and he was determined to be their hero, who got them registered. Chris agreed that he might have overdone the timing of entering the line that never ends, but even at the crack of yuck, he was still number 3.

The official camp registrations began at 9:00 AM sharp on Saturday, and no way were the people doing the registering going to open the doors to the gymnasium a minute earlier than nine. Not even when I offered to get them a special mug of something from Starbucks, as they wandered up and down the hall, through the throngs of parents, spouting off camping trivia questions and handing out miniature flashlights to anyone who could answer correctly.

The mother beside me won four flashlights. Cheater.

By 9:05, Hubs and I were done. The boy was registered for his book-making class (the summer camp which will complete his life and make him oh-so-very-thrilled-and-happy), we had written our gigantic check and paid for said summer camp, and we were done. It was all over with.

People, we stood in line for a period of time which is usually equal to a transcontinental flight with Delta, and we accomplished our business in less than five minutes.

The boy will make a book. And he will golf. And he will golf some more. And he will be taking fly fishing lessons. And he can hardly wait for the summer to commence.

Because Book-Making + Golfing + More Golfing + Fly Fishing = Carnival-Like Fun, just without the cheesy stuffed animals you can win by shooting darts at a balloon.

By noon on Saturday, I sort of felt like I should be starting dinner (dinner — as in, the evening meal!), because we had been awake so long, and neither Hubs nor I could believe that it was only noon!

Clearly, we needed something to do, so we drove over to our friends’ new house, which is just in the Sheetrocking stage. Amy and PH are building a house from scratch. Or rather, they are paying someone else to build their house from scratch. As PH was walking through the house with us, trying to avoid wet splotches of Sheetrock mud, which had been slopped onto the floors, he said, “I can’t believe how fast this is coming along! It seems like just yesterday when we had two-by-four stud walls separating the rooms, and now they’re slapping mud onto the drywall!”

Clearly, this was not the proper phrase to say to Hubs, because Hubs built our house himself.

And it took almost as long as it took Noah to build his ark.

By the time we left Amy and PH’s new house, I felt like we should be getting ready for bed, but it wasn’t even 1:30 in the afternoon.

A Saturday can really drag by, when you get up at the crack of yuck.

Eventually, the boy came home from Enzo’s house, and we learned that Enzo’s mom had taken the boys rollerskating.

At the local roller rink.

Which I have mentioned before in a post or two, because it is so famous for its germs. And dirtiness. And filth. Enzo’s mom is clearly cooler than I am, because she was willing to brave all of that to show the boys a good time. My boy was very pleased with the outing, and when he came home, I boiled him in disinfectant.

Literally. Although I’m not a germ freak at all (not one bit!), I tend to overreact a bit with the local skating palace. I think a small child could actually catch The Black Death or a drug addiction in that establishment.

When Enzo left, his mama told me that he was complaining of a sore throat and a plugged-up nose. Clearly, he had caught some version of the Instantaneous Germage.

In an effort to kill some more time before the hour was appropriate enough to get into bed, I took the boy to our big church parking lot, so that he could ride his bicycle on acre after acre of smooth pavement. The boy, you see, has a relationship with his bike like Calvin, from Calvin and Hobbes, has. The boy has endured two good wrecks on his bike — wrecks which have stripped skin off of his body and left him broken and bleeding and crying — and, because of those two wrecks, the likes of which scare Hollywood stunt men, he is a bit cautious with his bike. It’s because he’s completely convinced that his bike will drive him to a garden blooming with razor blades and glass shards and pitch him, head first, into the mess. Oh, the boy can ride his bike. Don’t get me wrong. He can ride just fine. He just doesn’t trust his bike, because his bike has let him down. Twice. And left him with scabs on top of scabs.

Hubs and I know that we have to get the boy to rebuild his confidence with his bike, because nine-and-a-half year olds should be screeching and careening all over the place on their bicycles. As Hubs put it, “When I was ten, I was riding my bike seven miles into town with the neighbor kid, so that we could buy black powder to make small explosions with, and then we’d ride seven miles back home. On the highway. With no helmets. We couldn’t buy ammunition for our .22s when we were ten, but we could buy black powder. Go figure.”

Clearly, Hubs’ primary desire is that the boy will regain enough confidence in his bike to ride it to town with our cute neighbor boy, so that they can attempt to buy black powder. Rest assured that the boy, although a smidgen fearful of his bike, is not at all fearful of explosions. In that regard, he is a brave little soul, who wants to ignite the dynamite himself, and stare in complete, mesmerized wonderment at the ensuing explosion.

Maybe I shouldn’t push him to trust his bicycle again. Maybe I should simply remind him of how badly he bled when he wrecked and how much skin he lost off of his small body, and how it could all happen again. In an instant.

To keep him out of the black powder and all.

By the time we got home from the bike riding, it was 7:00. Hubs was in bed at precisely 7:15. The boy was in bed at 7:30. I stayed up and read my Nicholas Sparks book, which I’m trying to muscle my way through, so that I can go see the movie, which is currently at our theater. As can be expected with good old Nick, I bawled my eyes out, until they were swollen, red orbs that felt like sand had blown into them off the Sahara. And, in a fit of sad tears over a stupid book, I went to bed at 8:45 on Saturday night. We were a house of enthusiasm then, let me tell you.

Is anyone even still with me? Have I simply bored you all to tears yet?

Shall I do the “speed summary” of our Sunday?

Here it is:

We slept in today. By my calculations, Hubs slept exactly three minutes less than fourteen hours. Had he stayed in bed for three more full sweeps of the second hand, he would have been in bed for fourteen completed hours. Who does that?!

Because Hubs slept for nearly fourteen hours, we didn’t make it to Sunday school this morning, but we made it to church.

And then the boy’s buddy, Kellen, came over, and the two of them constructed enormous spaceships out of Legos.

And then Kellen and the boy went to a birthday party together. It was a costume party, so they both dressed up as King Tut. Like I’ve said, costumes at our house are a lifetime investment. They go well beyond Halloween.

And then the boys went to Kellen’s house to play and finish out the afternoon, while Hubs and I attended a session at our church on “How to Have THE TALK With Your Child.” You know. THE TALK. The talk which Hubs and I have been putting off, because our boy is so sweet and innocent, and because neither of us wants to introduce the subject. We were at a bit of a loss on how, exactly, to even start the conversation.

“Listen, Boy…When a man really loves a woman…”

Hubs and I now feel like we’re a little more armed with the wisdom necessary to have The Talk someday soon. Of course, we’re arguing with one another over which one of us gets to start it.

My vote is for Hubs to take the boy on a little fishing trip. And have a nice chat with him. And Mama can just avoid it all!

But alas…we’re a solid team of parenting over here at the Jedi House, so Hubs and I are in this together.

Happy Sunday night, y’all. The weekend is over.

And so is this blog post.

1 thought on “The Post In Which I Get Way Too Wordy and Boring

  1. Yikes, "The Talk", at nine and a half. Please tell me girls don't have to have "The Talk" until they are 20. However, if I need some pointers I can count on you, right?

    I had to catch up on my weekly JediMama. See you later. –Sarah

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