We started out our Monday morning today by realizing that Thing 2 slept until 6:50 AM. You cannot even begin to fathom the depths of Hubs’ and my joy, because SIX-FIFTY, PEOPLE!! The only thing that totally ruined it was… well… MONDAY MORNING. Hubs had an early meeting at work, and I had a little ceremony to attend for my niece first thing, so we were up, killing rats early.
Oh. I jest. I would never have the gumption and stomach power to slay a rat to the death, because I’m sure it would involve blood and internal organs showing up on the outside of the rat. I just can’t do that. But if there was a rat nearby, I would summon Hubs or the boy, and I would request that said rat be removed from my line of vision, pronto, and ask them to take the little rodent for a drive in the country and all.
I’m all about rat relocation programs.
Hubs and I spent a great chunk of our morning wondering out loud WHY Thing 2 couldn’t sleep in on… say… a Saturday morning. Or a Sunday morning. Why must it occur on a Monday, when we were both needing to be dressed in real clothes (instead of pajama bottoms) and shoes, and when I had used the flat iron and the perfume?
But then we remembered that beggars should never be choosers, because a starving man will look at a container of cottage cheese with longing, when I will look at it and throw up.
I seriously have no idea where these paragraphs are coming from tonight, but I feel a good ramble about to happen.
So… I should really get to the point of tonight’s blog post, which is simply that there is no point tonight. Unless, of course, you want to hear about how I put chicken and noodles in my slow cooker first thing this morning, like I was Paula Deen or something, or how I finally washed the load of whites that has been sitting on my closet floor in a hill the size of Buick from the late ’60s, all because my people declared that they were no longer SHORT OF SOCKS, but had, in fact, moved into WE HAVE NO CLEAN SOCKS ANY LONGER territory.
Oh, the drama of the male tribe when they can’t find a pair of clean socks. Don’t they know that this was why man invented the flip-flop? Except I was assured that real men don’t wear flip-flops, because how do you hunt and fish and shoot bad guys and drive tractors and save damsels in distress from castle towers, when your shoes are in danger of sliding off your foot?
So, instead of just sitting here at the computer and enlightening you on what it’s like to be ME on any given Monday evening, when I have nothing profound to write about, I will just throw in some snapshots from the past few days.
On Friday, Thing 2 and I got out and did some sliding. After that, we threw the luxury of the stroller beneath the bus, and we went for a walk, hand-in-hand. We walked about a half mile around our subdivision, in the amazing time of thirty-five minutes, because we had to stop and investigate EVERY SINGLE rock, pine cone, stick and wet, soggy sock.
(Yes. A wet sock. My toddler grabbed a stray sock out of the street that had, at one point, been white, but which was grayish-brown on Friday. It was sopping wet and covered in all manner of germs and bacteria, both visible and invisible… both smelled and not smelled. Apparently, Thing 2 felt the need to bring it home to the men in our family, due to the sock shortage at home.)
Thing 2 has also discovered the joy that is Donald Duck. Our baby LOVES the duck with the speech impediment, and has decided that he is perfectly capable of giving his parents thirty ENTIRE minutes of downtime (GLORY, GLORY, HALLELUJAH), if they will just put Donald on the tablet. The trick to this, though, is that Thing 2 ONLY likes Donald Duck and Chip and Dale. He especially likes how upset Donald gets when the chipmunks mess with him, and our toddler laughs out loud at these episodes. But… if Goofy or Mickey or Minnie happen to come onto the scene, Thing 2 is DONE. He doesn’t like the other characters… not even a little bit… and he refuses to watch any episode that features the rest of the gang.
It’s JUST Donald and those pesky chipmunks… or nothing at all.
We have friends who live in Texas who have been complaining about the forty and fifty degree weather they’re experiencing. They’ve started shopping online for down-filled coats trimmed out in the fur of wolves, because COLD SNAP and HOW DO PEOPLE LIVE UNDER THESE TEMPERATURES?
In Small Town, USA, forty and fifty degree temperatures mean that the neighborhood kids toss their jackets aside and run wild in just their T-shirts, because LOOK HOW WARM IT IS? And DOES THIS MEAN WINTER IS ALMOST OVER?!
With the onset of our forty-five degree heatwave, the neighborhood boys have all come out in the evenings with their airsoft guns… and then they chase one another around and around the houses and cars and trees and garbage dumpsters, planning ambushes and staging sneak attacks and shooting the ever-lovin’ snot out of one another.
Last night, I finally gathered up my camera and tried to snap some pictures of them, while I kept hollering, “DO NOT SHOOT ME!! I just need a few snapshots! HOLD!! YOUR!! FIRE!!”
What amazes me the most is that all the junior high boys in our neighborhood let the lone eight-year-old play with them. They treat him kindly, and they actually enjoy his company. But the lone eight-year-old doesn’t have an airsoft gun of his own, so the big boys always loan him one…
… and they make sure it’s the gun that doesn’t shoot very well, because HE’S THE YOUNGER BROTHER. The poor kid. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Last night, I overheard the RULES OF ENGAGEMENT and the WAR CODES OF CONDUCT being established, and someone said to the eight-year-old, “And if you cry, you go home; got it?” This was his brother, because only the older brother has the nerve to talk to him like this.
It’s what brothers apparently do.
Not five minutes later, the little guy took a shot to his bare leg from across the yard. The boy (MY BOY!!) inflicted the wound on THE LITTLE GUY, which naturally made my heart swell with pride.
I glared at the boy. “Don’t shoot his bare legs!”
“I wasn’t AIMING at his legs, Mom!”
The little eight-year-old immediately yelled, “Ouch! Ouch!”, which was followed by a big pause, and then the words, “I’m okay! I’m fine! It doesn’t really hurt! I can keep playing! And… YOU SHOOT LIKE MY GRANDMA!!!!”
Yes. Apparently he can keep up with the big boys. Of course, he had to run like the wind, after uttering THAT GRANDMA comment. The enemy was in hot pursuit of him after that one, even though I clapped wildly and yelled, “SIX THOUSAND POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!!!”
I don’t know how many of y’all have ever sat through a nice ceremony on a folding chair, with a thirty pound squirrel on your lap, but it was an adventure. Thing 2 kept standing up in my lap to holler out, “Cousin R! Cousin R! Cousin R!!!!!” across the gymnasium. And then, when he couldn’t see her in the sea of 5th grade heads, that toddler would yell out, “Where’d she go? Where’d she go?”
We only had to step out into the hallway once, during a speech made by a soft spoken 5th grader, who wasn’t handed a microphone. He was talking in a voice that was barely above a whisper, while Thing 2 was shouting to get his cousin’s attention. I figured his mama and daddy would probably prefer to strain their ears to hear their son’s speech, instead of being bombarded with Thing 2’s comments, so we spent some time admiring the drinking fountain in the hallway.
My little guy was amazed at how you can push a button and WATER JUST COMES RIGHT OUT!! JUST RIGHT OUT!! LOOK, MAMA!! YOU PUSH THE BUTTON… AND WATER!!!!!
I’ve got to get the socks out of the dryer, match them, and distribute them, so that the male tribe members can keep their feet warm tomorrow.
It’s not like a man can slay rats or dragons in a pair of flip-flops.