Well, our weekend wrapped itself up, and I think that you should be able to tell exactly how it went by hearing this one thing: I was in bed at 8:10 last night.
My eighty-four year old self just clapped as wildly as her rheumatoid arthritis would allow her to do, while my nineteen year old self just sighed and rolled her eyeballs clear into the back of her head. I think we can just blame the sleepover for everything.
On Friday night, the boy asked if his friend Eli could come over, which was fine, because Eli is like the cream on the top of the milk. He’s one of those good eggs that I thank Jesus for a lot, because he never leads my boy into temptation by encouraging him to steal the family car and drive them to the gas station for snacks at 2:00 in the morning.
People, it’s the little things.
Plus, gas station snacks? I don’t know. Hubs is all about the gas station hot dogs, and he claims that they’re a perfectly acceptable meal in a pinch, but I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that folks pump their gas with the filthy nozzles, and then zip into the station to pump their cheese sauce onto stale tortilla chips.
It just seems like a flagrant disregard for health codes.
At 4:00 in the morning on Saturday, I woke up and realized that the boy and Eli were still downstairs, laughing their heads off, and then that was pretty much it for me going back to sleep. I have this disease where ONCE I WAKE UP, I AM AWAKE FROM THERE ON OUT. It’s also known as the SILENT KILLER, because it can make you bone-weary and wishing you had a bucket of caffeine to soak your head in by 3 PM.
By 5:00, I had pretty much given up on falling back asleep, so I just got out of bed and waited for Thing 2 to wake up.
Which happened at 5:45, because the little rascal decided to sleep in.
And, from there on out, we hit the ground running. There were errands to run and enough laundry to do, that I momentarily contemplated lighting all the dirty clothes on fire and just hopping online to make some orders to replace everything.
Sometimes, just starting over from Ground Zero is what needs to happen.
Later in the day, we had dinner with Hubs’ parents, and then…
… the boy drove us twenty miles home in a mini blizzard, which caused me to need the defibrillator a couple of times, even though he did just fine.
And by just fine, I mean he was a little hesitant himself to drive when the snowfall looked like Han Solo flying the Millennium Falcon through an asteroid field, so he just kept the speedometer at a lovely thirty-four miles per hour. This did wonders to alleviate the pressure around my heart that seemed to be saying, “This road trip may actually give you a heart attack, because your baby is driving you home in a miniature blizzard, that’s actually more of a real blizzard and less miniature than you had previously thought.”
We did make it home, with everyone in one piece, and I had to turn to the boy and say, “You did great. Mama just needed a nerve pill for the PURE IDEA of riding with a fifteen year old in a raging snowstorm.”
And then, because…. ADRENALINE… I didn’t fall asleep as early as I would have liked to, considering that I’d been awake since 4:00 in the morning.
So I finished a Dan Brown book that borderlined on five hundred pages. I can’t say that this was the wisest choice, either, because reading all about the crazy man who put a virus in a water-soluble bag and then created a map for Robert Langdon to decipher in order to find the plague before it was released does wonders for wooing a girl right back to sleep.
I believe the word you’re looking for is STRESS.
On Sunday morning, Hubs slept in until 8:40, because apparently he thought he was back in college and no longer the father of a three year old who wakes up earlier than the fellow who makes the donuts at Krispy Kreme. And then we had forty-six feet of fresh snow in our driveway, because of the blizzard that we had driven home in the night before. Since our driveway is shaped like an Olympic bobsled run, it’s always a good idea to use the snowblower and shovels on it after the snow has fallen, before the vehicles drive out and pack that snow down like a sheet of ice, the likes of which hockey players drool over.
All of that is just the long-winded version of why we didn’t make it to church on Sunday.
Later on Sunday, while Hubs was suffering ANXIETY and STRESS over the Denver Bronco playoff game, my friend Heather and I took our preschoolers sledding. What we imagined happening (a lovely day spent with two beautiful cherubs, sliding down a gentle slope on plastic sleds, while we had real-live, adult conversations at the top of the hill as we looked on) didn’t turn out to be what actually happened (the hill having a layer of solid ice under forty-two feet of new snow, which made The Littles fall down six thousand times, requiring us to ski down the short slope in our sneakers, because we were ill-prepared for the elements, to drag their red-cheeked bodies back up the hill, until our shoulders were pulled out of their sockets, and everyone had fallen thirty-nine times and proclaimed over and over, “I CAN’T AFFORD TO BREAK A HIP AT MY AGE!”).
And that is how we came to find ourselves inside the indoor playland at the local rec center. We simply gave up on sledding on the snow covered, icy death run.
Later, after the Broncos had managed to pull off a last-minute win to make Hubs breathe a bit easier, we met Heather and her family for Mexican food, and then Hubs and I pulled our boys through Walmart for a big grocery run, while both of our children whined out their irritation at having to be there.
So… you know… RELAXING.
And THAT, people… in a nut shell… is why my bedside clock read 8:10 last night when I slid beneath the sheets and called it a day.
And then, as our luck would have it, Thing 2 slept in until 7:10 this morning.
He’s slept until 7:00 approximately one other time in his entire life.
And he just pulled it off on a Monday morning for us.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to return the boy’s laptop back to him, because he’s bellowing about HOMEWORK, MA! I HAVE HOMEWORK! This is what my life with a dead video card in my big Apple computer has come to: Fighting over screen time with my freshman son.
Y’all have a merry Monday night.