We are officially done partying at our house, because Mama needs to detox. It’s time to get back to real life, that happens without presents being unwrapped every day, for three straight days. Real life also skips over pizza / cake / donuts / extra pats of butter, and goes straight for THIS IS SALAD, KIDS. IT’S FROM THE GARDEN. YOU EAT IT.
On Saturday, the boy had to be at work at the unholy hour of 6 AM. It’s because the little private school where I teach was hosting its annual golf tournament fundraiser, and guess what? Hubs and I actually said the words, “Of course we will volunteer to help,” out loud, which got us a spot at 7:15 AM, hauling tables.
And this is where the real kicker comes into play, because Thing 2 slept in on Saturday morning. For the entire four years that we’ve had that child, we’ve tried to convince him that life will continue in a whirlwind of FUN, FUN, FUN, even IF he sleeps in until… say... 6:30. Just give us 6:30 in the morning, Kid! He never gives us 6:30. He gives us 5:00 and 5:30, but by 6:30, Thing 2 has been up so long, he’s ready for his mid-morning snack.
And on Saturday morning… when we all had to be at the golf course at o’-dark-thirty… that preschooler slept in until 7:15. My mom was at our house, where he just continued to sleep, even after we had all left WITH OUR HEADLIGHTS ON IN THE MORNING, BECAUSE WHAT IS THIS EARLY MORNING BUSINESS OF DUSK-LIKE DARKNESS?
So, Hubs and I and the rest of the staff at our private school worked that golf tournament like a pack of bosses. We had cloud cover and a full-on, cool breeze, because the Lord was pleased with us. We sold golf balls, collected scores, handed out beers and donuts and Gatorade, set up the buffet tables, set up the extra tables to eat at, hauled chairs everywhere, tallied scores, took pictures, chatted nonstop, organized door prizes, and served fried chicken, macaroni salad, hot rolls, and watermelon.
I’m fairly certain if my PE gig ever quits working for me, I could probably walk right into any PGA tournament and make a career of working there.
On Saturday night, we went to Grammy and Papa’s house, where we celebrated Round One of the boy’s sixteenth birthday. Grammy grilled steaks and made a chocolate cake from scratch, which she stuck sixteen candles into.
Now, what you need to know about Hubs’ family is this: They don’t believe in regular matches to light things. The first 4th of July I ever spent with Hubs, back when he was just MY BOYFRIEND WITH THE REALLY SWEET MULLET, I became alarmed that they were igniting all of their home fireworks WITH A HANDHELD PROPANE TORCH.
As much as I have fought it, the tradition has been passed on to the boy, who now thinks he needs to reach for the handheld propane torch any time a flame is required in life.
Jesus, please be near us, even though our family has chosen to adhere to irresponsibility, as we light things on fire in the most dramatic way possible.
The boy was thrilled to get a manly apron and a creme brulee torch from his beloved Aunt Pink. That mini torch will allow him to pursue his love for cooking in the kitchen, as well as provide him with numerous opportunities to ignite things he shouldn’t be igniting.
(Yes. I double checked, and all of our smoke alarms have fresh batteries.)
She got back to us with a handwritten, color-coded list that would have put Martha Stewart and her party planning abilities to shame. I am convinced that Ciara’s spiritual gift is PARTY THROWER.
We kicked things off late Sunday afternoon by telling a small pack of kids to meet on the street downtown, in front of a new gig in Small Town. It’s a mystery room, where folks are actually locked in. They’re given sixty minutes to search for clues inside the room and solve a mystery on espionage and embezzlement. If they manage to piece the crime scene together and solve the case, they get the key to unlock the door. I think confetti falls from the ceiling and horns toot and pats on the backs happen. If they don’t solve the crime… the owner of the mystery room unlocks the door for them, and the guests come out, hanging their heads in shame.
The kids were jazzed to go, until they all learned that YOUR CELL PHONES WILL BE LOCKED UP TO AVOID CHEATING.
There went all the selfies to post to Instagram!
In the end, the kids claimed that they needed JUST TWO EXTRA MINUTES to finish solving the crime and get the information recorded. Everyone laughed and said if it was a sixty-two minute timed game, rather than a sixty-minute game, they would’ve nailed it.
Frankly, I think they all talked a big talk.
In the middle of a TORRENTIAL, HORRID, MASSIVE downpour, the likes of which would have made Noah sit up and take notice, I crammed all six of those teenagers into my Suburban and brought them and their soaked hair back to our house, where we had pizza and salad and watermelon.
(The salad and watermelon were just for show. I don’t think the kids even touched the health food options.)
It’s become a tradition at our house to usher in a new year with a maple-glazed long john.
… by BUYING HIM ONE as a gift.
The boy LOVES it, but I’m convinced it’s one of the three ugliest hats ever made.
After the donuts were gone and the gifts had been opened, the flooding downpour stopped. Ciara had a scavenger hunt planned for everyone, so they all burst out the front door, in the middle of the wet and slop and mud, and off they went, collecting odds and ends all over our neighborhood for an hour.
I had to judge the scavenger hunt, to make sure that every item the teams had brought back to our house qualified and passed the legitimate test.
I also declared the girls’ team as the winner, because I’m biased.
We picked Back to the Future, because we felt like they all needed to see the classic and come to know Marty McFly as a best friend.
Monday was his birthday.
Since he had to work at the golf course on his birthday (Welcome to the real world of ADULTING, Son!), we went, bright and early, to the DMV.
If you ever think that dropping your child off for the first day of kindergarten is hard, think again.
Sending them off into the world IN A CAR, ALONE is hard.
Kindergarten is a STINKING CAKE WALK.
The boy quickly opened a few more gifts on Monday morning…
… just him and his ugly hat.
… it has taken exactly nine minutes to go from our preemie who looked like THIS…
After crying in the driveway, I went back inside our house and prayed that these last three years of high school will JUST DRAG ALONG VERY, VERY SLOWLY.
Like… SERIOUSLY SLOW, because the boy doesn’t think me homeschooling him for college is an option he’d like to pursue further.
Happy Wednesday, y’all. Happy Wednesday.