Well Then. SB50 Made Hubs Proud.

So… I guess there was a big game or something yesterday?

Something about… what?  Football?  And I think there were new commercials and Lady Gaga belting out the National Anthem like a boss, and then there was confetti spraying everywhere, everywhere, EVERY STINKING WHERE at the end of the game.


That’s right.

The Denver Broncos won the Super Bowl, and I’m not sure that Hubs’ adrenaline ever reached a low enough point last night that he could achieve a resting heart rate or settle into REM.  I think he was still smiling and cheering and yelling out, “IT’S A BRONCO FIRST DOWN!” while he slept.

We hosted a tiny little party at our house, which involved friends and pizza and chips and dips and sugary drinks and cupcakes and chocolate-dipped pretzels, and then Heather felt like she should bring a veggie tray, which was fine, because we simply dunked all those broccoli florets and baby carrots in ranch salad dressing, so they wouldn’t feel like healthy outcasts.  Of course, nobody could quite figure out why their digestive systems were all tied up in knots and struggling two hours later, or why BLOATED became everyone’s middle name, but so be it.

The Broncos won the Super Bowl, and ain’t nobody wanted to celebrate that with a plate of steamed cauliflower and tofu.  Every now and then it’s okay to completely sabotage your blood sugar levels.

In other, non-football news, the rest of our weekend shook down just fine.

The boy has played the clarinet in the school band since the 6th grade, and he likes it.  He’s musical, times one thousand.  Hubs and I have no idea where he got the gift for playing instruments, considering that Hubs’ only real memory of band in high school was the year he blew box elder bugs out of his trumpet, and the teacher asked him to put it away and GET OUT OF HIS CLASS.  That’s pretty much when Hubs gave up band in school and added another PE class to his schedule.  I played the violin in grade school and junior high.  By my freshman year, I finally admitted to myself that I never did understand flats and sharps.  Like… at all.  I’d been involved in orchestra for five years, and I still couldn’t look at a page of music and know what notes were going to be played sharp-like, and which notes were gonna fall flat.  I felt like this was something a girl should know, if she was going to go on and be in a symphony… so I made a quiet exit from playing the violin in school… and took another English class.

Apparently, Hubs and I were both looking to replace our music programs with an Easy A.

But the boy?  Well, goodness.  He can rock the piano better than Elton John is capable of doing, and he can blast that clarinet like he was born holding it.  He understands sharps and flats and understands what it means when the conductor hollers out that they’re going to dump the augmented seventh chord and go all jazz hands.

Yes.  But can he diagram a sentence, like an old-school pro?

The boy adores his piano and the clarinet, but what he is not overly fond of is pep band.

Pep band plays at the big football and basketball games at the high school.  All of the band members sit together, and they follow the teacher’s lead to whip out small sections of We Will Rock You and Eye of the Tiger and We Ain’t Gonna Take It.

(It’s been difficult for me to admit, but all of Hubs’ favorite songs from high school have become sports anthems; Rick Springfield didn’t end up with a single song that’s belted out between periods at hockey games.)


The boy is not crazy about pep band, because it involves him wearing his band shirt and sitting with… well… THE BAND, when where he wants to sit is in the student section, where he can hang out with his buddies.  We’ve told him to follow Nike’s lead and just do it, but he seems to think flunking band will hurt his chances of getting in to Harvard.

Listen, Son.  Your dad seldom showed up to anything band-related, as he saw the F as an acceptable compromise to taking what you had to take, when you wanted to do something different than what the trumpet section was actually doing.  And yes, Grammy and Papa were probably irritated, but your dad turned out okay.

The boy, who is obviously more mature than both of his parents, just rolls his eyeballs and declares, “Mom, I’m not flunking band to hang out with my friends.  I’ll go play at the basketball game.”

And then I chalk one up for that little gem called Reverse Psychology.

And that’s just a long-winded bit of writing to say that the boy wasn’t keen about watching the high school basketball team take on Rival Town from the band section, but he did it anyway on Friday night.

Harvard will be lucky to have our child.

Hubs and I both skipped the basketball games on Friday, even though… yes!  RIVAL TOWN WAS HERE!!  WHO skips the game when it’s Rival Town?!!  Thing 2 was hot a mess of exhausted, because he hadn’t slept well the night before, and because he and I had pushed our gearshift into overdrive on Friday and played hard together.  Playlands and sweat and also the great outdoors and running were all involved.  By 5:15, Thing 2 had already fallen asleep in his carseat in the Suburban, and I had to work my magic to wake him up while I was driving.

(Oh, people.  It involved pulling over and shaking him awake.  I value my children and never turn sideways in my seat to face the back while I’ve got the gearshift engaged in DRIVE.)

I don’t know how far removed you are from parenting a preschooler, but ain’t no parent out there got time for a kid to nap at 5:15 PM.  You might as well just slap bedtime sideways and give up.

By 7 PM, I had Thing 2 tucked in his very own bed, sound asleep, and Hubs and I were in our pajama pants, watching The Goldbergs on Hulu.  I believe the phrase you’re searching for is WILD AND CRAZY NIGHT.

11949140_650582561745796_9024908321405654720_nOur Saturday was less exciting.

Hubs and I took Thing 2 to see the new Kung Fu Panda movie at the theater.  He was all over his own miniature box of popcorn and tiny 7-Up, and then listen:  The bad guy in the movie was a bull with glowing green eyes that seemed to have a whole lot of evil going on inside of him, and our little man DONE.

He kept hiding his eyes and telling everyone in the theater, “I don’t like that guy!  I don’t like that cow at all!  I want that cow to go away!”

(Yes.  Thing 2 is a disgrace to all the ranchers in our community, as he called a bull a cow.  We’re working on his Animal Identification Program.)

And that is why we walked out of the movie and came home.  Thanks, Kung Fu Panda.  Your pandas were cute and funny; your bad guy was a little too scary for us.

Alright, people.  I think I’m rambling now, so I’ll just wrap things up and put you out of your misery now, but HEY!

DID YOU HEAR THAT THE DENVER BRONCOS WON THE SUPER BOWL?!  Oh, yes,  ma’am… they surely did.  I’ve got the digestive issues from all the junk food to prove it today.

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