I have now played six games of Scrabble Blast on my Big Mac (which is no longer a shout out to McDonald’s because PINK SLIME MAKES ME HURL!), checked Facebook once, looked at a very fancy blog dedicated to a girl who decorates her home and who makes me feel like a failure because I don’t have burlap pillows with white lace on MY living room sofa and besides, I have eighteen days’ worth of crumbs on my kitchen floor which she didn’t seem to have, and I have thoughtfully considered every single fragrance Caldrea offers in a kitchen countertop cleanser.
And in between all of that, I kept clicking back to Jedi Mama, Inc., hoping that some words had appeared on the screen, and that somehow (Through the force?) a post would just go ahead and put itself up while I wasted a couple hours of my life on the Internet.
Sadly, there were still no words here, and I couldn’t spell big enough words fast enough to beat my own high score on Scrabble Blast, and all I learned from Facebook is that Missi planted her garden today and is celebrating her hard work with a beer and televised hockey (Seriously? If this were my answer to a hard day’s work, Hubs would rise up and call me blessed among women.), and I spent a smallish chunk of change and ordered three different fragrances of countertop cleanser.
Plus a bottle of hand soap.
And another bigger bottle of all-purpose cleaner.
Apparently just seeing all the snapshots of this girl’s fancily decorated house that was CLEAN! OH MY WORD! THE CLEAN!, has made me recommit my life to pulling myself up by the bootstraps so that my family can quit living in a home that is more than likely every bit as clean as a sod house on a prairie inhabited by a lone eighty-six-year-old bachelor with a bad back.
With any luck at all, combined with a speedy delivery by the UPS man, my kitchen will soon sparkle like the Tooth Fairy’s wings and smell like Lavender Pine. Or Ginger Pomelo. Or even Mandarin Vetiver.
And really? I have no idea what Vetiver even means. Or is. Or whatever. Caldrea simply had me at MANDARIN.
All of that to say, people, that our weekend was so uneventful, I have very little to report tonight.
All I can say is that on Friday, Thing 2 had the worst belly ache in the history of belly aches, as evidenced by the gurgling and the massive volume of green filth he deposited into his diaper four times. We had us a morning of crying and crying and also of CRYING.
And then I decided that I didn’t need to cry THAT MUCH just because I had an exhausted month-old baby whose tummy hurt too badly to take a nap.
Que the Nanny.
Brother’s Wife called and asked if my niece, seven-year-old Miss A, could spend the afternoon with me, because Miss A is in a school district that boasts of NO SCHOOL ON FRIDAYS EVER, while Brother’s Wife was otherwise engaged in grown-up work stuff, and I said yes. I had high hopes that Miss A (the Nanny) could perhaps rock Thing 2 while I attempted to vacuum and try to stop all my crying.
And that is exactly what the Nanny did, and during all the rocking, she patted a burp out of Thing 2 that rocked the planets off kilter a titch, and Thing 2 collapsed after being wide awake for SEVEN AND ONE HALF HOURS, and the Nanny put him to sleep.
It’s a sad Friday when a seven-year-old girl can mother a tiny baby better than you can.
My nephew, M, came with the Nanny, and when we picked the boy up from school (because, sadly, he is enrolled in a district that boasts of YES, WE HAVE SCHOOL EVERY FRIDAY, ALL YEAR LONG), I promised to take them to the Dairy Queen for Arctic Freezes.
(Yes. I fed the children high fructose corn syrup and red dye #5.)
(And they told me that I rocked, which is the vernacular now for YOU MAY BE THE BEST AUNT EVER.)
The boy had gotten to have a pizza party at school for academic achievements well done, and when he crawled into our Suburban he announced that he was dying because two greasy pieces of pizza were about to do him in, and when we pulled through the Dairy Queen THE BOY ASKED ME TO ORDER HIM NOTHING EXCEPT ONE LARGE ICE WATER.
I immediately considered taking him to the emergency room, because the Dairy Queen is the boy’s favorite restaurant ever. Period. I usually have to encourage him to GET SOMETHING SMALL, and not something off of the FAT ALBERT SIDE OF THE MENU.
And then the boy asked me a question which simply solidified the need for a trip to the ER, as he said, “Mom? Could you take me to the library before I throw up? I want to get a book to read.”
The boy and the reading?
Is exactly equal to oil and water. Or Small Town and Rival Town in football. The boy and the reading don’t go together, because, although the boy reads at the post-high-school level and can pronounce enormous words like PHOTOSYNTHESIS, he loathes reading more than he loathes scrubbing the toilet in his bathroom.
And on Friday, he ASKED, with premeditation, to get a book.
I think I drove 90 miles an hour between the Dairy Queen and the library, and the kids all trooped in.
And then they came home and they read books outside on the deck in the sunshine, and I decided that perhaps the Mayans are right, and that perhaps 2012 really is the end of it all.
On Saturday, the boy was back to normal, after having digested the greasy pizza, and it was raining outside. Even though it was SUCH A GOOD DAY FOR READING BOOKS, the boy decided to throw the literary world under the bus. The neighbor boy came over and I am ashamed to admit that they played (ahem!) ten hours’ worth of video games in our family room.
Don’t judge us.
He read a book on Friday.
And on Saturday Hubs and I did nothing. And by nothing I mean that I stayed in my pajamas until I finally decided to shower at 5:30 and brush my teeth. We played with Thing 2 and marveled at how his belly DID NOT hurt on Saturday, and we smiled at all the grinning he was doing at us, and when he napped, Hubs and I squeezed together on our living room sofa and got ourselves completely caught up on Modern Family, after not having seen a single episode since Thing 2’s arrival in our lives.
And then I cooked a giant pot of chili, which Hubs insisted with a loud voice wasn’t really chili, because real chili doesn’t have beans, and I was adding beans, and so he firmly declared that I was making some type of chili-related, Mexican goulash.
On account of the beans.
An hour later, after it had all simmered and blended and cooked itself up good enough that the Pioneer Woman would have bowed down and declared my meal worthy enough to be debuted on her cooking show, Hubs announced, “This chili is fantastic.”
Not “This goulash is fantastic.”
Because apparently Hubs forgot that real chili doesn’t have beans.
But yes. On Saturday, I think the only time our door opened was when the neighbor boy came over to rot his brains out with ten hours’ worth of video games. And when my parents brought us a bag of apples and some fresh veggies from a farmer’s co-op they had visited.
Well, I showered. And I used make-up. And I didn’t put lip gloss on my eye lashes, so BONUS. And we went to church. And Hubs and the boy mowed the yard. And I scoured bathrooms. And I did four loads of laundry. And I vacuumed up a storm.
And now there are real words over here at Jedi Mama, Inc., and I have clean floors and great-smelling countertop cleanser ordered and on the way, so I no longer feel like a decorating failure because my living room throw pillows are generic and from the local Walmart, instead of handcrafted from burlap and white lace and pinned on Pinterest.
I should celebrate.
But it probably won’t be with a beer and a televised hockey game.