We are now done weekending.
I suppose that it was inevitable, what with today being Monday and all, as that does seem to spell out BACK TO THE BUSINESS.
For me, it spelled out TAME THE HOUSE, BERTHA. I always hate it when we come off the weekend and realize that the maid never bothered to show up and run the dishwasher or throw the load of darks into the washing machine. If I hadn’t already fired her six times before today, I would have done it again this morning.
My weekend really got itself started on Friday morning, because Becki and I met at Starbucks for a “meeting.” At least that’s what I told Hubs when he called my cell phone. (“Honey, I can’t talk now; I am in a MEETING.”) This way he had no idea that I was slowly dumping his retirement fund into white paper cups and thick slices of pumpkin bread.
(Except before Hubs and I hung up, he said, “When you finish with your meeting, bring me a mocha frappuccino.”)
Honestly, I don’t know why Becki and I simply don’t run for the presidency together. Oh, SHE could be the president, because I think she’s actually less hormonal than I am, so she’d be less inclined to just give that giant red button a good whack on certain days of the month. As for me, there are days when I’d like to fire the missiles. I’d crank them around, aim them straight at the deer who are eating the bark off of my tree, and slam my hand down on the SEND button. Plus, the president is known for the small fact that he has to give speeches, and I don’t do the public speaking. So I’m thinking that I’ll just run on Becki’s ticket as her vice presidential running mate, and just stand behind the curtain when she’s at the podium, addressing the nation. Because, listen: The two of us can solve some issues during a two-hour coffee date, so there’s no doubt that we could have the nation in tip-top shape by St. Patrick’s Day. And, somehow, I think it’s probably a real fact that if the president says to the little intern with the day-planner, “I’ll need a hot cup of Starbucks’ magic brew, and bring one for my vice president, too,” beverages would be delivered.
I just want to report that coffee dates with Thing 2 in tow are always iffy. Sometimes Thing 2 simply gets bored with all the grown-up talking, and he decides to throw himself over backwards and holler at the ceiling. But on Friday, he was my golden child. He was perfectly behaved for the entire two hours, and Hubs and I now have solid hope in our hearts that we’ll eventually see that little monkey tamed up good and proper.
On Friday afternoon, Thing 2 played some piano. I think that he lacks the boy’s natural talent, because Thing 2 skipped the melody altogether and simply beat a single key by slapping it a thousand times without stopping.
Later on Friday, Thing 2 and I loaded up into the Suburban, and we met Hubs and the boy (who had gone with Kellen) at the big boys’ soccer game.
Thing 2 looked a bit homeless, because HELLO, BERTHA! DID YOU NOT WIPE THE BOOGERS OFF YOUR KID’S NOSE BEFORE TAKING HIM OUT INTO THE PUBLIC REALM?
Apparently, that was a solid no. Plus there’s a chunk of something by his eye.
And then they all swiped the baby after the game, and rolled around in the grass with him.
Is it really any wonder that the little man believes he’s honestly a twelve-year-old himself?
Afterwards, ALL of the big boys went with Kellen’s mama, because Kellen was having an enormous slumber party in his family’s guest house. Hubs and Thing 2 and I all hung out at the deserted soccer field for another hour, talking with his 5th grade teacher from last year, and some other friends of ours. In the end, the soccer field gates were being locked up, on account of DARK, DARK, DARK, so we said good-bye and headed home.
Thing 2 decided to try Hubs’ Coke.
And the boys all attacked Thing 2 again.
I returned home to THIS little fellow waiting for me on the kitchen counter:
Hubs and I ended up watching a movie when Thing 2 was asleep for the night. We saw the newest Mission Impossible flick, and let me tell you this one thing: I honestly didn’t think it was EVER going to end. In fact, I gave up entirely at 11:30 and told Hubs, “I don’t even care how it ends any longer; I am going to bed.” Hubs, who has a stick-it-out attitude in almost everything, announced later, “It never got any better. It was two-and-a-half hours of my life that I’ll never get back.” Thank you, Netflix, for not recommending something a little better for our Friday evening.
On Saturday morning, we picked the boy up from the big slumber party.
(The slumber party where no slumbering really took place.)
And then Bek came over Saturday afternoon, and he and the boy made darts out of sewing pins. I have already found one dart that had gone astray on my kitchen floor. If I end up with one in my foot, I will PUSH THE BIG RED BUTTON.
I won’t be able to help myself.
On Sunday, there was church.
And then the boy and Cousin B decided to go golfing, because it was THE MOST BEAUTIFUL FALL DAY EVER! It was a perfectly glorious day outside, and the Broncos weren’t scheduled to play until tonight. We dropped the boy and B off at the course, and they played nine holes together. When Hubs and I picked them up, we had hamburgers on the patio by the clubhouse for dinner. I may have also taken a few pictures.
We put Thing 2 in the grass with all the leaves, but it didn’t turn out to be the photo opportunity that I had hoped for, because Thing 2 promptly ATE the leaves.
Their first few drives each went about 50 yards. Obviously, they were missing the sweet spot on their golf balls. Hubs and I pointed at the ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YARDS sign and said, “We’ll take you both for ice cream if one of you can hit a ball THAT far!”
You should never make bets with boys involving ice cream. Boys will accomplish most anything for food.
The very first shot that the boy took after we had made the bet for ice cream sailed way out there. He hopped up and down and yelled, “One hundred and fifty, dude!” Of course, he was right. His golf ball HAD INDEED gone that far. Hubs and I shook our heads. “No, no, no! It stopped way before the sign!” We’re terrible parents.
So the boy turned around and bashed a second ball past the 150-yard sign…
…and one second later, Cousin B jacked one past the 150-yard marker as well.
They both looked at us and yelled, “ICE CREAM!”
By the time they had used up all the balls in the bucket, the boy had put 5 shots past the sign and B had 7 balls well beyond it. This is probably where I should confess that BOTH BOYS actually had a drive that probably made it to the 175-yard spot. Hubs and I had no idea they could hit that far.
And it cost us blizzards from the Dairy Queen.
It was worth it, though. The weather was fantastic, and we all laughed until our bellies hurt while the boys were whacking shots on the driving range. Especially when they pretended to be Adam Sandler in Happy Gilmore.
Thing 2 can do push-ups. It’s the funniest thing ever, and you cannot watch him without laughing hysterically. His push-ups are amazing!
He keeps his body straight, and he raises and lowers himself by just using his arms. Over. And over. AND OVER AGAIN. Any cross-training coach in America would be impressed! He told the big boys, “Yeah? So you can both hit a ball 175 yards! Big deal! I can drop and give you one hundred seventy-five push-ups!”