The Weekend Of The Sloth

I’ve been sitting here at the computer now for way too long, switching back and forth between Pinterest and the news.  I need new dinner recipes for next week, because our lives have come to the point where I am sick of making tacos and chicken for dinner every other night.  Seriously.  We have some form of tacos ALL.  OF.  THE.  TIME.  Taco casserole.  Taco slop in the crockpot.  Taco pie.  Real tacos.

(Except I have friends who are from big, Mexican families, and they insist that what I make in my kitchen with store-bought, flour tortillas and a can of Rosarita’s refried beans are not real tacos.)

We also eat a lot of chicken, because the chicken is so versatile.  Shake ‘N Bake it.  Have your husband grill it.  Chunk it and make soup.  It’s all very lovely, especially when your preschool son asks, “Mom?  Where does chicken meat come from?” and you are forced to tell him, “Well, when a chicken has lived a long and blessed life, and when she’s very elderly, she may go for a walk with the farmer.”  Except I couldn’t bring myself to reveal the truth of the matter in all its gross glory, so I just said, “The grocery store.”  Since Thing 2 is four, he bought it.

I have also been reading the news tonight, so that I can feel very intelligent in all current event discussions this week.  However, the intelligence part never fully pans out for me where the news is concerned, because listen:  Unless the current event is Diego, trying to get the lost, spotted leopard back home to his mama, I really haven’t heard of it.

Through all this flipping back and forth between Pinterest and the news, I keep ending back here, on the blank screen that was tonight’s blog post, hoping that — by chance — some writing fairies had shown up and waved their magical wands to create actual words on the page.

Sadly, the writing fairies are a lot like the cleaning fairies, in that they seldom decide to show up.

So.

How was your weekend?

Ours, apparently, is over, which is the real drag about Sunday evenings.

On Friday, Thing 2 and I had THE LAZIEST DAY known to mankind.  I don’t mean to brag, but I passed six levels in a row on Candy Crush, while Thing 2 built a monstrously huge spaceship out of Lego bricks.

And then he dropped the spaceship onto our hardwood floors, where it exploded like a supernova.  Words alone cannot do justice to the tears we suffered through, until I promised to help him pick up the pieces and rebuild the ship from ground zero.

There’s a reason why I didn’t become an engineer.

It’s called SPACESHIP CONSTRUCTION.  I was told no fewer than eighty-six times that I wasn’t doing it right.  Basically, I was informed that I was incompetent for the job, and that I should collect my personal items and my last paycheck and head on home, which was fine by me.

I ended up working on my Bible study homework, while it rained outside, and while Thing 2 used the nuts and bolts from the exploded Lego spaceship to build an abstract combine harvester.

Bless him.  I imagine THAT’S why I was struggling with my spaceship labors.  I had the wrong blueprints.  I was building stuff for NASA, when what I was supposed to be building was farm equipment.  Clearly, one is going to have a jet propulsion unit, while the other just needs a good, working smokestack and some big tires, for getting out of mud holes with.

I’m fairly certain that, after being fired from my construction job, the only other productive thing that I did on Friday was get the boy to golf practice and then get him back home again afterwards.

And then I pulled a take-and-bake pizza out of the oven, which Hubs had started while I was picking the boy up from practice at the golf course, so there was that.

In other words, I cooked dinner.  Take-and-bake pizzas qualify as home-cooked meals.

Sloths have done more work on weekdays than I managed to accomplish on Friday.

On Saturday, there was laundry.

And more laundry.

And another load of laundry, because there was no laundry on Friday.

There was also a dishwasher to fill up to the brim on Saturday, because the poor machine didn’t get run on Friday, either.

Hubs and I took Thing 2 out to play on Saturday morning for a while, even though it was freezing cold.  This is what you call, STRIVING FOR THAT GLITTERY, PARENTS OF THE YEAR AWARD.

We also dropped the boy off at the golf course again, because he’d decided to golf a quick nine holes in the wind and cold.

On Saturday afternoon, Thing 2 swiped a saucepan from my kitchen drawer, filled it up in the bathroom sink…

… and promptly dropped the entire thing onto the bathroom floor, when he realized that it was a titch too heavy for him to pick up.

The flood recovery team was immediately summoned into action, and we called our State Farm agent.  It was all very relaxing.

Saturday was a bit more productive than Friday was.  Hubs and I ended up staying awake until 11:00 last night, watching a movie together, and listen:  The last time I stayed up on purpose until 11:00 was Prom of ’88.  I had forgotten that an 11 PM actually existed.

I knew at 10:45 last night that I was going to regret my decision to plunge forward and finish out the movie, because we own a preschooler who is an early riser.

Sure enough.

Thing 2 was up at 5:20 this morning, ready to take on the world and have himself a six-course breakfast that started with Cheez-Its and ended with a chocolate-dipped granola bar.

I spent most of this morning getting the boy ready to leave town for three days for a high school golf tournament.  I helped him iron golf shorts and golf pants and golf shirts, and then watched as he basically wadded them all up into a ball, which he shoved to the bottom of his suitcase.

It was one of those parenting moments where you have stars in your eyes, over all the proudness you’re feeling.

I then proceeded to inform my kid, over and over and over, that he should NOT LEAVE HIS NORTH FACE COAT IN THE HOTEL ROOM, WHEN THE FORECASTED HIGH FOR TOMORROW IS 44 DEGREES.  I told him, over and over and over, that it will be a bit freezy on the golf course, if his wind-proof, waterproof, down-filled, fully-lined, costs-as-much-as-a-mobile-home coat is sitting in his suitcase at the hotel.  And then I told him other important life skills, like, “Check the shower before you leave the hotel on Tuesday, and grab your shampoo and conditioner!”

Seriously?  The world would fall apart without moms and their advice, and no boy would ever arrive home after traveling with his shampoo bottle.

The boy rode the bus to the complete opposite side of our state today.  The team was practicing at the golf course tonight, and teeing off in the tournament tomorrow morning at 8:00.  He’s golfing varsity these days, and Hubs and I are kind of stinking proud of him, even though all the senior boys in our state turn in far lower scores than he does.  We just tell him, “They’re SENIORS, Son.  And SENIORS have bigger biceps than FRESHMEN, which means they hit the ball further on the golf course.”

Thing 2 overheard me say this.  He flexed his muscles and yelled, “Well, I have even bigger muscles than they do, Mom!  My muscles are WAY BIGGER than seniors!”

Later this afternoon, with the boy riding on a bus with his friends on the golf team, Hubs and Thing 2 and I had lunch with some close friends of ours, at their house.  They have twin nine-year-old boys, who entertained our preschooler for four entire hours outside.

Four hours.

Outside.

Four hours of non-stop running, jumping, swinging, hopping, truck-pushing, squirt gun fighting, sandbox digging and hide-and-seeking.

While all of that was going on, Hubs and I sat inside and had real, ADULT conversations with our friends.  It was like a Christmas Miracle, in May, had taken place, as we all realized that we were left behind at a lunch table…

… WITH NO CHILDREN TO ATTEND TO.

Another drink?  Yes!  I think I will!

Thing 2 fell asleep in the Suburban at 4:30 this afternoon, which was horrifying.  A 4:30 nap is the sleep-killer for nighttime, so Hubs and I shook him awake, and kept him busy until 6:30, which was when he called Mam on the phone.  In his sweet, tender voice, he asked his grandma, “Mam?  Will you please come to my house and rock me to sleep?”

Mam was powerless to say no.  She arrived before 7:00, and that kiddo was sleeping soundly by 7:20.

And THAT, y’all, was our weekend, in fourteen hundred words.

Carry on and enjoy what’s left of your Sunday evenings.

 

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