At the moment, Thing 2 adores Billy Idol’s old song, “Mony, Mony.” And by adore, I mean that he wants it to play on a never-ending loop from now until he’s old enough to mow the lawn on his own. Our toddler has learned to hop up onto the kitchen counter and hit the back arrow button on the iPod, when it’s in the docking station, at the final chords of “Mony, Mony,” just so he can hear it again.
For the seven hundredth time.
Honestly, go ahead and pull my last nerve out with a pair of tweezers and beat it to death with a strong man’s sledgehammer from the traveling carnival. As much as I enjoyed that song in 1988, it is officially done in my life now. Thing 2 will have none of my TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! comments, because he found the guitar from Hubs’ PlayStation game, Guitar Hero. This little bit of discovered buried treasure has given our kid hours of fun, as he’s played Rock Star. His version of Rock Star involves him cranking up the volume on “Mony, Mony,” while he strums the stringless guitar and makes snarly faces at no one in particular.
In other words, Hubs and I are sitting on a gold mine, because I’m thinking that we won’t have to pay college tuition for our younger son now. He can just join a band and go platinum, with his curly Mohawk and his curled back lip.
Then, on Friday afternoon, at the end of his concert in the dining room, Thing 2 took the guitar strap off his shoulder, and… in a performance that would have made Angus Young weep tears of pride… he beat that plastic guitar on our hardwood floor.
And THAT, y’all, is how the little door that holds the batteries in broke off, and why there is now a piece of SOMETHING inside the guitar that rattles around whenever you pick it up.
It’s also why I put Thing 2 on some serious, high-level probation around here, that includes no more You Tube videos of AC/DC concerts with my baby daddy.
But, the broken guitar aside, this was one great weekend.
On Friday, I spent the entire morning with a friend whom I haven’t seen for a while, sipping coffee at her house and chatting up a storm, while I pulled Thing 2 out of her glass, pumpkin-shaped candy bowl thirty-three thousand times. You’d think it was our first rodeo with young children, because it took two packages of Smarties, three hard Life Savers and two candy corns to make me realize that I held within myself the power to put that bowl on top of my friend’s refrigerator.
I HAD THE POWER!!
On Friday afternoon, I scrubbed my house down, but you’d never know that now, just 48 hours later. Our family has the ability to take over a residence and make a swamp filled with mean transients and nuclear waste look clean. I think it’s a super power.
On Friday night, I got together with some girlfriends, and we hit a posh little restaurant in town, and THIS is what you need to know:
I had a peach and tomato caprese salad that’s memory will stay with me until I meet Jesus.
Although this is NOT a snapshot of the actual salad that I ate, it looks exactly the same, but was apparently taken by a professional food photographer. However, the website that I stole this photo from (Italian Bella Vita) has a recipe, and I’m pretty sure it’s dead-on to what I ordered for dinner Friday.
You can bet that I’m going to whip this little miracle up, as soon as I can find some fresh buffalo mozzarella, that’s been flown in from Italy, as the recipe recommends. (I may also try out forty-six other recipes on this website, because WOW!)
The real kicker to this is that I just learned to like tomatoes in the last year. Yes. It’s true. I spent nearly my entire life gagging on red tomatoes and shivering if I had to peel one off a sandwich I had ordered, and now look at me. I’m making up for lost time, and scouring the internet for a peach and tomato caprese salad recipe, because it romanced my heart this weekend.
On Saturday, I left the boys with Hubs to do manly things (which involved a trip to Home Depot and a trip to the tractor store), so that I could go to the church and watch Beth Moore’s annual simulcast. If you’ve been around Jedi Mama, Incorporated at all, I’m sure you’re aware of the fact that I’m Beth’s BFF… just the one she’s never met before… and Girlfriend didn’t let any of us down on Saturday. She preached a word that was aimed directly at me, even though she claimed that over 150,000 women were watching her speak, through the simulcast and home-based internet connections.
She spoke on being audacious enough to claim the birthright that God has given us. She began by recounting the ancient story of an exhausted and starving Esau, who came upon his twin brother, Jacob, who just happened to be cooking up a stew.
(I wonder if he served it with a side of peach and tomato caprese salad? I think that would have been a nice touch.)
Esau, who was the firstborn twin… the one who was entitled to inherit more… gave up his birthright to his younger brother in exchange for a meal.
And that’s when Beth paused and asked, “What is your stew? What have you traded for what you can inherit as your birthright from God?”
BOOM! Because I think I had a long list that could answer that question.
By the end of Saturday, after six entire hours spent with good friends at the simulcast, I came home mentally drained from tears, and completely ready to pour several bowls of stew out.
And then today, there was church and there was laundry. That has a lot to do with the fact that I had to wear my VERY LEAST FAVORITE shirt to church today, because every! other! shirt! I owned, that was church-appropriate, was in the dirty clothes basket, and that basket was heaping over and spilling out upon the floor. It was a tsunami of shirts and dirty socks and that needed to visit the Whirlpool, with their good friend, Tide.
As we are still adjusting to IT REALLY ISN’T SUMMER BREAK ANY MORE and getting back into our school and fall routines, as well as THE ALARM CLOCK, I found some more pictures on my camera’s memory card from our very last cookout of the season.
This was a little barbecue that was thrown by Sister and her husband, because my nephew had just turned ten on the VERY LAST DAY of summer vacation. We got together with all kinds of good friends and all kinds of good food, so that we could talk and talk and TALK, while we swatted wasps like windmills on crack and welcomed Cousin K into his tenth year.
(Yes. Swatting wasps was a theme this summer, because Small Town, USA was invaded by Killer Wasps. They all wanted to eat their fare share of barbecued brisket, before they went back to the hive to report to the queen that the barbecue sauce on the south end of town was much better than the cheap yuck they were serving over ribs on the north end.)
And… I have to be honest. I was so busy talking and talking and TALKING at this little party, that I paid very little attention to my camera. In the end, I just handed it over to our friend, Sam, who is far better at photography than I am. So yes. Sam took 90% of these snapshots featured here tonight. I can take no credit for them.
Apparently it’s a real thing, but I think the celebrities are doing it with something other than the black Crayon. These pictures make me want to hum the theme song from The Addams Family.
And then… LOOK! Because Sam had my camera, we were able to get him to take a snapshot of all the mamas in the crowd, who were horrendously busy discussing life together, while we ate the cheesecake dessert Christy whipped up.
Beth Moore said this weekend in her simulcast that we need to surround ourselves with our people, because Satan is quick to go after the lone sheep, who remains isolated from a group. I can’t imagine being in a better flock than this one, where we encourage one another and build one another up… and where we look after (and potty train) our enormous herd of tiny sheep together.