Our Weekend

So Monday’s coming.

It inevitably happens after a weekend, I guess, but I’m not really ready for this one to end.

On Friday, the boy had soccer practice, because apparently there is one team in the league that says, “YES!  Let’s practice on a Friday afternoon, and?  Do you know what?  Let’s go on ahead and practice for two entire hours on a Friday afternoon?”  I guess that Hubs and I missed the memo that said, “We’re changing the simple soccer league at the local rec center into a training session for the US Olympic Team, 2016!  Go, America!  Shoot and score, and give credit to long Friday night practices!”

Because we believe in sticking with things, the boy went to soccer practice.  All two hours.  He came home sporting a sprained wrist.  Apparently he jumped up to block a shot while he was playing goalie, and the ball slammed his wrist and snapped it backwards.  My initial reaction to his wrist on Friday night was, “Rub some dirt on it.  It’ll be fine.”  And when the boy asked for the Ace bandage and wrapped his wrist up like a mummy who has just suffered a car accident and has gotten extra bandages at the local ER, I simply rolled my eyes heavenward, because REALLY?  We need extensive bandaging for a minor flesh wound?

And then there was high school football on Friday night, and that went EXTREMELY WELL for Small Town, and then there was bedtime, and THAT went extremely well for me.

Oh, Friday… you wore me out.

On Saturday morning, the boy woke up and asked me to help him re-wrap his wrist, because he may have had the bandage on so tightly overnight that he lost circulation to his fingers.

It was the blueish tint of his thumb that sort of alerted him.

I played along and took the Ace bandage off his arm, and then I pulled my entry card from the running for Mother of the Year, ’12.  The boy’s wrist was SWOLLEN, and swollen BIG.  I looked at Hubs and said, “Oh man!  Do you think it’s broken?”  And this sent the boy into a chorus of, “I told you I was on the disabled list, and you kept saying, FLESH WOUND!”  So the boy is sporting a wrap on the wrist, and all I can say is this:  If it’s not better in a couple of days and a future X-ray proves BROKEN, I will feel like the world’s very worst mother.  The boy has himself AN INJURY, and I’d call this one LEGITIMATE!

Needless to say, the boy’s private golf lesson on Saturday afternoon didn’t go off as well as he’d hoped, because he couldn’t  hold his golf club very well with the WRIST OF DOOM.

And then!  On Saturday, at precisely 7:30 in the morning, Hubs helped me pipe Beth Moore’s simulcast into our home, through the beauty of the World Wide Web!  Oh, a local church was also hosting the event, and I had every intention of going, and then I caught wind of WATCH IT IN YOUR HOUSE IN YOUR SLIPPERS, and that is exactly what I did.  I didn’t shower.  I wore my pajamas.  I wore my slippers.  I wore Friday’s mascara, because I’d never washed it off of my face.  I had coffee with extra half-and-half.  I had my phone, and I texted Katie and Amy through the entire simulcast.  And I had my notebook and pen, and I took notes, notes, NOTES!  I’m pretty certain that Beth’s entire simulcast was aimed at me, and me alone, and how she knew exactly what I needed to hear on Saturday was beyond me.

But, people… I got myself A WORD!

And I watched Beth on the TV in my jammies and slippers from 7:30 AM until 3:00 PM, and the boy looked at me and asked, “Um, what was that you told me a couple of weeks ago?  About how you can’t stand it when kids loaf around on the sofa all day in front of the TV?  Can you tell me again?”

This is where I called my attorney and said, “I want the boy written OUT of the will, and I want it done TONIGHT.”

I never did shower on Saturday, people.  I just walked around the house, looking like a super model gone to pot, but my heart was full with some words I had needed to hear.  When Satan takes something from you, stand up… push back… and reclaim it with God’s help.

There’s power there, people.

On Saturday night, I went to bed at 10:00.  The boy was reading, which is a miracle, but it also has a lot to do with the statement YOU ARE HEREBY GROUNDED FROM EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE WHICH HAS A SCREEN UNTIL YOU HAVE READ YOUR SEPTEMBER BOOK FOR YOUR LITERATURE CLASS.  I shut my light off, and I went to bed.  And at precisely 11:03 on Saturday night, when I was sound asleep and dreaming that I was painting a fence pale pink (I know?  I was PAINTING in my dream!  I loathe painting in real life!), the boy walked into my room and slammed a hardcover book shut.  The noise sounded like the space shuttle launching, and I dropped the can of pale pink paint and jumped out of bed.  I yelled, “What??  What’s wrong?!”  And the boy replied, “I just want you to know that I finished my book for September for literature!  I’m not gonna flunk the class after all!”

Because yes.  11:03 was exactly the most appropriate time to share this with me.

Two aspirin later, my blood pressure and heart palpitations were back under control.

And today we went to church.  Thing 2 slept through the sermon, so YAY!  Everyone around us was able to just sit there and listen, without having the little squirrel yell at them and say, “Hey!  How you doing?” in his baby mumbo-jumbo.

And then Hubs and I hit Walmart together, and Hubs is still alive.  I told him that if he didn’t get overwhelmed in the super center, and if he didn’t sigh in irritation when someone was blocking the aisle with a ride-on, motorized cart, he could pick a little treat out at the cash register when we left.

And then we have piddled around the house this afternoon and this evening, and we have paid the bills, because apparently adults have to do that once in a while, if they want to continue to enjoy things like water and electricity and cell phone usage.

So that was this weekend, people.

Y’all have a happy Sunday night.

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