We always like to get things started with a big kick, and Mother’s Day ’14 was no exception.
At 2:30 this morning, I woke up because Hubs had hauled off and kicked me as hard as he could in bed. I don’t mean to imply that this was a little kick. This was the kind of kick that makes contestants in a karate kick-off sit up and say, “Well. That’s gonna be hard to top.”
Hubs sat straight up in bed and hollered, “Did you just kick me?” What I was trying to do was recover my breath from being kicked down and wake up enough to determine whether or not this was an attack by intruders who had broken in to steal my diamond tiara or not. I was debating getting out of bed, standing on one foot, throwing my arms high into the air, and kicking back exactly like the Karate Kid would have done it. I think I managed to whisper, “No. No, I didn’t kick you.”
And Hubs, bless his heart, replied, “Oh.”
And then he sat there and stared at me in bed for a while, which isn’t creepy at all in the darkest part of the night, before he yelled, “Well… SOMEONE kicked me and I WILL find out who it was!” And then he flopped back down, yanked the covers up to his chin, and continued snoring.
This, people, is what living with a Navy SEAL is like. You just never know when the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is going to kick in.
No pun intended.
Hubs remembers NONE of this, because… well… he was SLEEP-KICKING.
And then he told me later today, “I can’t believe someone hasn’t made an action figure of me yet.”
Settle down, Girls. I’m keeping this man.
After that, the rest of the day seemed uneventful.
But look! These boys are the reason I get to celebrate Mother’s Day…
The boy had a band concert on Thursday night, and his dressy clothes had been discarded in a heap on his bedroom floor, right beside Wednesday’s castoff clothing and whatever he wore to school on Friday. When the boy got ready for church this morning, he just pulled clothes off of his floor, because that was so much easier than actually looking through his closet for something to wear.
And… if Bubbie wears a tie… then Thing 2 wants a tie, as well.
Something about Monkey See and Monkey Do.
They were the most handsome boys at church this morning, and they made my heart swell with happiness, even if Thing 2 DID escape from the nursery, bolt down the church hallway, and come running through the sanctuary in the middle of the service, looking for me. Do you know how surprising it is to see your toddler sprinting like an Olympian down the aisle WHILE CHURCH IS A-HAPPENING, when you were fairly certain you had already checked him in at the play room with all the tractors and trains?
Our weekend was full.
The boy had a band concert… which I already mentioned. I took some poor-quality snapshots. Auditorium lighting and I don’t understand one another when it comes to my camera.
But… before the concert… I made the boy sit at home for picture-taking, because it’s not every day that your 7th grader discards his T-shirts and windpants for a tie.
And? Did I mention? If the boy wears a tie, his little brother wants a tie, too. A clip-on version came to our rescue on Thursday night.
I managed to snag pictures of the boy and his buddy Enzo while they were walking onto the stage. I’m learning to be a Band Mama, as I shout out things like, “Sparkle and shine, boys! Sparkle and shine!” But the main thing that Band Mamas know is that once your child SITS DOWN, the music stand will normally hide his face for the remainder of the evening, so your photos will be nothing but a giant heap of boring.
Somehow, with the boy on the end of the lineup, we actually got to SEE his cute face during this concert. Enzo’s family, however, wasn’t as lucky in the audience.
I didn’t earn medals in music class, because I had nothing but problems with Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge. The Good Lord didn’t bless me with any musical talent, unless you count turning the iPod on as mad skillz. Hubs didn’t earn medals in band, either, because… well… that’s hard to do when you’re being KICKED OUT OF BAND for blowing boxelder bugs through your trumpet at the instructor.
We didn’t play with a shaving-cream-and-cornstarch concoction this time around, but… while I was loading dirties into the dishwasher… and while I THOUGHT Thing 2 was hanging out with his big brother… Thing 2 was, in fact, in our master bathroom by himself.
He used a small plastic cup to scoop ALL of the water out of our toilet, which he then poured onto our bathroom floor.
And when I say ALL OF THE WATER, I mean that literally. This is one of those rare instances when I exaggerate not at all. ALL of the water that was once sitting in our toilet bowl was officially on our floor, and only Jesus knows how many tasty drinks Thing 2 consumed out of his little cup to quench his thirst during all that hard labor.
The moral of this story is that we DO NOT make small messes at our house. We shoot for the stars in messiness. We go big, or we just go home.
On Saturday afternoon, I consulted Pinterest and made Moon Dough for the toddler. Unlike the cornstarch and shaving cream, Moon Dough doesn’t explode when a two-year-old comes into contact with it. Moon Dough is a bunch of baking flour held together with baby oil.
We laid a big bath towel down, which we know from experience is vital to having an easy clean-up experience.
The official clean-up time on the Moon Dough was seven minutes. This is such an improvement, considering that our Thursday morning clean-up efforts took an hour and a half, and two-thirds of a bottle of vodka.
After our JUST LOOK AT MAMA IMPLEMENT FUN STUFF OFF OF PINTEREST afternoon, the boy made muffins, and listen, people…
He made muffins using ICE CREAM.
Ice cream muffins!
Apparently, if you let a pint or so of ice cream melt down to a big bowl of milky yuck with floating bits of chocolate and caramel and whatever else your favorite flavor sports, and then you combine it with a couple cups of self-rising flour and bake it all at 350, you get muffins.
Muffins that taste pretty dadgum good.
I mean, other than my Navy SEAL, who denies being on Pinterest when he found this recipe. He denies it vehemently, but listen: The boy and I don’t really believe him.
Pretty much like I don’t really believe that he’s ever going to find “the someone” who kicked him at 2:30 this morning.
Y’all have a very happy Mother’s Day evening.