I had planned to tell you all about our weekend in tonight’s blog post, but the boy got a brand spanking new mattress on Friday night.
(Yes, I can see that what I write TONIGHT might not appear to have anything to do with a new mattress arriving on our doorstep on FRIDAY NIGHT, but I promise: The two really ARE related.)
(It’s an intricate spiderweb of words, but I can probably bring you from the first little thread to the end of the web in nothing flat.)
(Trust me. Spiderwebbing in conversation and jumping from one topic to another like a lizard on a Pixie Stixx high are both a specialty of mine.)
So yes. The boy did indeed get a new mattress, because his old one was the equivalent of a burlap bag full of softball-sized rocks with a few metal springs shoved inside for good measure. Hubs and I bought that mattress (CHEAP!) when we bought the boy’s new bed when he was two. And do y’all know how you get what you pay for (CHEAP!)? Well, a mattress like that (CHEAP!) may look good on the bottom line in your checkbook register, but after a couple of years of having it in your house, it begins to disintegrate like a sugar cube in a rainstorm. And then your eleven-year-old will complain that HIS BACK! His back is throbbing, and he needs a chiropractor, which is something that an eleven-year-old boy should NEVER complain about! And then you’ll actually SLEEP on the mattress yourself, and you’ll begin to think that it would have been a more comfortable experience to walk on hot coals and eat the worm soup in an African witch camp.
(Which, trust me, would be a rather UNCOMFORTABLE EXPERIENCE for me, because I don’t like hot coals, worms OR witch camps.)
So Hubs and I forked over some hard-earned, American dollars last week, and we ordered the boy a new mattress online, and the thing arrived on our doorstep on Friday night. It’s a solid, full-sized, ten-entire-inches-thick slab of memory foam, and the reviews were glowing. (And, believe me, I read all SEVENTY-NINE reviews, because that’s what I do, if I’m going to give a company more than $15 in exchange for a product.) Hubs and I set the mattress up on the boy’s bed, we put freshly-washed sheets and freshly-washed blankets on it, and then we realized that the boy, AGE 11, now has a more comfortable bed than his parents have.
Never mind that his parents have a Sleep-By-Number Bed that cost more than either one of their first cars did.
If you’re contemplating buying a Sleep-By-Number bed and spending your life savings on it, this is NOT the blog for you, because my reviews will be somewhat less than glowing. It’s because The S-B-N Bed and I have developed some deep-seated issues over the years, which I thought was just ME, until Heather waved frantically out her car window to gain our attention and made some pantomime gestures of herself throwing back a shot as we passed her on a very busy street right here in Small Town, USA last Friday afternoon. And then Heather rolled down the window of her car, and I rolled down the window of my Suburban, and she screamed, “MEETATSTARBUCKS!!!” across the lane of traffic. And no one has to ask ME twice to SPONTANEOUSLY meet at Starbucks! The boy and I took a detour, and then we spent the next 90 minutes tucked in at a table with hot chai lattes, while Heather announced that she thought her Sleep-By-Number Bed was the worst thing to hit the planet since SIN.
And that’s saying something.
But suddenly, I realized that I wasn’t alone in my dislike for the expensive mattress system, and I had found a close friend to bond with. I immediately gushed on and on about my own S-B-N Bed issues, and how I was literally THISCLOSE to taking the entire bed outside and letting the boy light it on fire, just to be done with it. And really? Well, Heather felt the exact same way, and we spent at least thirty entire minutes listing out EVERYTHING — in explicit detail! — that we hated about our beds.
It was a long list.
(Dear Sleep By Number, I’m sorry about the poor review tonight. I gave you more bills with George Washington’s face on them than I gave to that car dealership back in 1988, and I loved that ’82 Honda Accord SO MUCH BETTER than I love your bed. Sincerely, Mama.)
(And, people! I really DID warn you that I had A LOT OF WORDS tonight.)
(And for the two of you who are still reading this long-winded post, “Praise you!”)
Tonight, when I tucked the boy into bed, after our busy and fun-filled weekend, I simply crawled into that glorious bed of ten-inches of exquisite memory foam, and I rubbed his back while he said his prayers out loud, and while we talked about the highlights of the weekend, and some things that we had to be thankful for. It was a very, very precious time, and then…
…quite suddenly, I was running my hand through a rainbow, and the colors were staining my fingers, and the rainbow’s colors were splattering onto my clothes, and I was QUITE WORRIED about what stain remover was going to get RAINBOW out, which seems to indicate that I either (1) did an enormous amount of drugs in the ’60s or (2) had fallen asleep on that ULTRA COMFY MATTRESS and was dreaming.
The correct answer is 2, because really? I wasn’t even HERE in the ’60s. Not at all.
When I opened my eyes and realized that the rainbow stains weren’t anything that I actually had to concern myself with, I gasped, because the boy was staring straight into my eyes, and this is what he said to me:
“Why do your ears sometimes hurt after you’ve been in an airplane?”
And, people, I gave him the best answer I could, about altitude and pressure and the delicate bones of the eardrum, but I was still trying to come to grips with the fact that in a fifteen-minute time span, I had fallen into a coma and dreamed about a rainbow.
A RAINBOW, PEOPLE. A rainbow that was STAINING MY CLOTHES.
And then I told the boy to “Please be quiet now, and go to sleep, because you’ve had a very busy weekend.”
And he tried, people. He honestly did. But then he stared back into my eyes and said, “Mom, how does a manual transmission work in a car?”
I simply said, “I have no idea! You just shift it. You shift it, and the shifter moves the gears, and then you go forward…”
And THAT made me sound very intelligent, so I got out of the SUPER COMFY BED, and here I am, sitting in front of the computer, and I realized that I have no good words to explain our fun weekend to y’all, so THAT, my friends, is what tomorrow night is for.
Unless I fall asleep in the boy’s bed again before I write a post ABOUT our weekend…
Happy Sunday night.