I don’t even know where to begin, our weekend was so full. If I were Hubs, I’d simply skip a blog post tonight, so that I could dedicate my evening to sitting on the sofa and watching a show where a small tribe of people along the Amazon River managed to catch a crocodile that measured at twenty-one feet and some odd inches.
I asked, “Is that big?”
Apparently an average, full-grown male crocodile, who has been in the gym pumping iron and taking his protein supplements and eating organic goats, usually hits sixteen feet in length.
And these people caught that thing with bamboo poles and rope. It suddenly puts my hunting abilities into perspective when I’m spinning around like a crazy woman, trying to swat a wasp into oblivion.
The boy finished up his soccer season at the end of this past week, and I’m not going to lie. The temperatures were more along the lines of WE ARE SITTING IN LAWN CHAIRS ON THE POLAR ICE CAP than they were for a small town in America in May. I also won’t lie when I tell you that I sat in my friend Katie’s Suburban, with the heat running, while our children shivered outside in their jerseys and shorts.
I’ll probably have to talk to Jesus about that one.
On Friday afternoon, I purposed in my heart that we would conquer some yard work at our house, because… well… we were starting to look like the abandoned home on the cul de sac, where no one ever mowed, and where kids dared one another to knock on the door without seeing the witches and goblins living inside. After I picked the boy up from school, we hauled the rakes and the shovels out of the garage, and we cleaned up the flower beds, because we knew the rain was coming.
On Saturday morning, I behaved like the worst parent in the world. I woke the boy up at the unholy hour of 9 AM, and I put him to work. We mowed. We slung the weed eater around. We bought new potting soil and planted geraniums and more geraniums. We bought new mulch and dolled the flower beds up. Thing 2 worked like cheap, slave labor, because he’s passionate about a shovel and a pile of dirt.
By 1:00, we were finished, and the storm clouds were threatening ENORMOUSLY. The boy was hoping to spend some time on the golf course, because NEW CLUBS. So Hubs and I took both boys out to the driving range, so that the boy could initiate his new clubs into the summer season.
Thing 2’s Grammy bought him a set of real clubs, too, and that little man did some damage to the grass.
Of course, I do have to show you what happens when you’re just three, and you haven’t had a nap, because your parents worked you like a draft horse outside shoveling dirt all morning, and then you (Gasp!!) CAN’T HIT THE GOLF BALL EXACTLY THE WAY YOU WANT TO HIT IT…
Gavin was turning four. He celebrated by having a Pie Party. Instead of cake, his sweet mama made pie after pie after HOMEMADE STINKING PIE. I was sort of envious that she could whip all those glorious desserts out from scratch like she did. It was literally a buffet of home-baked pies, from strawberry and rhubarb to caramel apple to peach and banana cream.
We had to pull the reigns back so that Thing 2 wouldn’t blow out Gavin’s candles for him.
(And? Seriously? How cute are those two preschoolers there? My hope is that they remain good buddies for the rest of their lives, and fight over who will be blowing the candles out at birthday parties until they’re old men in plaid, flannel hats.)
After Gavin’s fun party, Hubs and I took the boy to do… AHEM!!!… THIS…
I have no idea how he went from being a preschooler to being fourteen and thinking that driving his mama’s Suburban around our church parking lot, with the whole family in the car with him, constitutes a good time.
He put approximately two hundred and four miles on my vehicle by driving in circles on Saturday evening, and then he proved that he’s fully capable of parking it better than I can.
On Sunday, we went to church and then, in the wicked, torrential downpour of rain, we hopped from one high school graduation party to another. All I could think was that we now have four years left, before I’m decorating our mailbox with helium balloons in our school’s colors and making trays of snacks and treats and bawling that my baby has GRADUATED.
We had so much fun on Sunday evening though, as we attended the parties with good, close friends.
Thing 2 even climbed the climbing wall at our friends, Deb and Tony’s house, because he’s part monkey and can climb anything.
Our friend, Bob (the dad of the family), had knee replacement surgery earlier this month. When they got home, he discovered that the rain was getting into their basement, and he intended to go move some stuff out of the way to keep it dry. He slipped on their basement stairs with his temporary cane, fell clear to the floor, and ripped all the stitches out of his knee, exposing all the guts inside.
The boy was initiated into how much blood is in the human body, as the family had to call an ambulance to come take Bob to the hospital for a second surgery to repair all the damage he’d done to his knee.
We’re praying that Bob avoids stairs like the plague right now.
Today, the rain kept coming down in sheets, and Small Town started to flood. Since we were going stir-crazy in the house with a preschooler who wanted to run and jump, we tied him down in his carseat and went on a tour of the county to see the overfilled creeks and rivers.
This is a road… or at least it was on Saturday. We drove over that road on Saturday… twice, in fact.
In the end, we drove completely around our county, just for something to do, and ended up in the next county… in the next town over… having lunch at a little diner, where Hubs declared that he may have officially ruined his gut for life with his most recent jalapeno-laced hamburger dinner.
Since the rain was finally starting to clear up, we played at the park in the wet and the slop and the mud, because it’s how we roll.
And how cute is Thing 2 in his VERY OWN soccer socks and cleats? That toddler is downright outraged that his Bubbie gets to play in real soccer games, and he can’t, but he’s plum thrilled that he has some soccer attire of his own to wear.
He’s pretty much worn the socks and the cleats ALL WEEKEND LONG, and then declares that he can kick really hard now.
If you know a soldier, or someone who has fought for our country, don’t forget to tell him or her thank you today.
Happy Memorial Day, y’all. Happy Memorial Day.