Well, someone in our house didn’t get the memo that it’s summer vacation, because he was up at 5:10 this morning, jumping up and down about the airplane that had buzzed our house, all in the name of spraying poison everywhere to eliminate weeds and small mammals.
Airplanes can generate some excitement in Thing 2. It doesn’t matter what time of the day it is. Clearly, I’m going to have to talk to the CEO at the airport and say, “Your flight schedule for spray planes is not working for our family.” I’m hoping that he’ll be willing to fix things immediately, so that I don’t have to resort to tactics used in The Godfather to get my point across.
I’ve always liked horses.
In other news, we have settled into our summertime rhythm quite nicely. It involves me driving the shuttle to the golf course, as the boy has gone out to accomplish nine holes every day this week. I keep reminding myself that the mamas of Tiger Woods and Jordan Spieth probably made sacrifices and spent a lot of money at the gas pumps, too. I’m sure their boys buy them Coach purses now, as THANK YOU FOR ALL THE TIME YOU SPENT DRIVING US TO DIFFERENT GOLF COURSES WHEN WE COULDN’T DRIVE OURSELVES LEGALLY gifts. I’ve spent a lot of time lately envisioning my own Coach bag, when the boy wins it big in the US Open. I think I’d also like to wear an enormous, Kentucky-Derby-style hat and long gloves to the big golf tournaments, when I go to clap very quietly and not expect T-shirts to be shot out of pneumatic cannons in celebration of fantastic putts.
(Somehow, I think Hubs and I look more like the Beverly Hillbillies, standing along the green at the 7th hole, than we do a respectful, classy family, as I fight to hold in my Vivian Ward, polo match whoop and yell at the toddler for stealing the #7 flagpole.)
Also? Do you know what sport is financially crippling? Yeah… that would be golf. Naturally, our boy couldn’t pick a cheap sport, like ping pong.
Hi. My name is Mama, and our family used to have money for things like food and electricity. Now we spend all of our dollars on buckets of balls to hit at the driving range and tees and clubhouse cheeseburgers and replacement balls and individual golf clubs that cost more than BMWs and tournament entry fees and gas for the environmentally UNfriendly Suburban with the currently-squealing-like-a-pink-pig-in-a-jaw-trap fan belt.
Coach purse… Coach purse…
This is my boy on the very last day of his junior high career…
The 8th Grade is over, people, and that is the photograph of a high school student. Seeing as how he passed with a 4.0 GPA, his principal couldn’t be talked into retaining him for another year of junior high school. I absolutely cannot process the fact that my 7 pound, 7 ounce baby is now heading off to stinking HIGH SCHOOL.
On the last day of school, there was a breakfast for the students and their parents and their kid brothers. The homemade cinnamon rolls were the size of Goodyear tires, and Thing 2 ate TWO. OF. THEM., exactly like a boss.
He asked for a third, but his mama thought she should give the appearance of still being in the running for Mother of the Year, ’15, so she shot him down and rather loudly announced, for other, nearby mothers to hear, “No, honey. You’ve had your one chance at sugar for the year. We’ll go home now, and have some organic apples and carrots, that were never sprayed by the 5 AM planes.”
Although the boy is very much ANTI PICTURES right now, I did absolutely force him to take a couple with Eli and Kellen, because LAST DAY OF JUNIOR HIGH.
Let your mama have this emotional moment, FOR THE LOVE!
It was recommended that the kids dress nicely for their 8th grade graduation ceremony, which immediately followed the NOM-NOMMING of the cinnamon rolls. I ironed the boy a collared shirt and dress shorts…
… and then he immediately threw an old, ratty, striped sweatshirt over the freshly-starched ensemble.
During the graduation ceremony, the boy got a few awards, and we power clapped, to celebrate the end of an era. Some of us may or may not have also cried just a touch, but I tried really hard not to make fun of those mothers.
He made his own mama proud by wearing a nice T-shirt for the PLEASE CONSIDER DRESSING NICELY ceremony. At least the emphasis there was on NICE T-SHIRT, instead of RATTY OLD SWEATSHIRT THROWN OVER THE SHIRT YOUR MOTHER IRONED (IRONED, PEOPLE!!!).
Like… with a real iron and everything.
There are some things that women who only have daughters will never understand.
Also? Well, the mothers of sons don’t understand them either, because RATTY SWEATSHIRT!
With counseling, I think I’ll be fine and totally move past this haunting event. It’s just that — did I mention it? I ironed that shirt that wasn’t even publicly on display during the ceremony.
We are embracing summer break with our arms thrown open wide, regardless of the fact that golf tees bought at the golf course cost approximately seventeen times what they cost at Walmart.
Oh! And look! Here’s Thing 2, just because his mama loves him, too, and because he’s cute.
Plus… well… you don’t even have to look closely at those photos, but there is a dead bee in our fireplace. Apparently we have a hive beneath our eaves that is harboring bees the size of flying ostriches, and one of them crawled in through the vent and died behind our fireplace glass.
Obviously, the 5 AM Poison Plane isn’t doing the one job I need it to do, because THAT, people, is a BEE OF SOME KIND. And really? I don’t want to hear any backtalk about SAVE THE BEES, because when the bees are nearly as big as my forty-pound toddler, I WILL go all Godfather on them to see that they sleep with the fishes.
And by I, I mean someone else, who’s much braver than I am and not afraid of stingers the size of knitting needles.
Y’all have a merry Wednesday evening.