Well, we survived the boy turning sixteen. Or rather, I survived the boy turning sixteen, because apparently Hubs didn’t have much of a problem with it. Husbands are like that. They drop their dirty clothes on the floor RIGHT BESIDE the basket, rather than IN the basket, and they don’t cry when they watch their brand-new sixteen year old drive off in his own car for the first time.
Our day was kind of quiet yesterday, after the excitement of PRESENTS! and DRIVER’S LICENSE! and I’M TAKING MYSELF TO WORK, MA! died down. Thing 2 ended up napping, which he does once every millennium, and that’s when I decided that the headache I had been struggling with in the very early morning was actually going to flare up into the ugly, hairy, one-eyed monster known as THE MIGRAINE. I don’t know if it was the fact that I’d pulled off a late-night surprise party for the boy the night before and had ended up with practically zero hours of sleep… or whether it was the gut-wrenching cry I had in the driveway, when the boy drove off with his very own license tucked into his wallet… or whether it was just estrogen swimming through me in spirals and causing grief, like estrogen is famous for doing… or whether it was the copious amounts of cheap, greasy pizza I had eaten the night before, in an emotional bout of HE’S SIXTEEN, MAMA… but there it was.
The mother of all the headaches, which screamed, “Yeah… you’re gonna need to just lie yourself down, under the influence of TWO Excedrin Migraine tablets, and sit this one out.” Thank you very much.
And THAT, people, is how I spent the majority of the day, while the boy was working and Thing 2 decided to power nap his way through two and a half full hours.
When our preschooler was finally shaken awake by ME, in an effort to SLEEP TONIGHT, CHILD O’ MINE, we answered the text of the hungry SIXTEEN YEAR OLD with a special birthday lunch. He asked for Taco Bell, because Taco Bell is the love language of teen boys. It’s also the colon cleanser of forty year olds. I try to feel no envy, as Jesus would appreciate, when the boy gobbles down four hard-shell tacos with a two-quesarito chaser and announces, “Still solid, Ma!” His gut will repay him when he’s forty-two, at which time I’ll probably be smacking my lips around a jug of pureed peas while I laugh at him.
I one-upped Taco Bell yesterday, as I stopped by a food truck in town to get the boy a deep-fried shrimp basket with cajun-seasoned fries and a little plastic cup full of the spiciest cocktail sauce this side of the swamps of Louisiana. Thing 2 and I drove the Styrofoam box out to the golf course, where the boy gasped in surprise.
“Oh, my gosh! Is that a SHRIMP BASKET?!”
Happy birthday, Son. That’s $10.99 worth of grease-filled love.
I’m hoping he’ll remember my generosity very soon when I announce that the flowerbed needs weeded.
And then… right there at the golf course… the heavens opened up to downpour some much-needed rain on us, which was great and all, but the Rain Party got started BEFORE Thing 2 and I were safely tucked inside the Suburban.
We were soaked.
We drove our soaked selves back home. I had every intention of maintaining a horizontal position on the sofa, in the hopes of killing the migraine dead, which is what I STARTED to do…
… but, Thing 2, in an effort to reach Legos that he’d tossed into the air like confetti and watched fall all over the kitchen counter, stood up on a bar stool beneath one of our pendant lights…
… and his head knocked the light bulb…
… which shattered like broken dreams…
… and sprayed 588.4 TRILLION glass shards all over my kitchen.
There’s a mess that can’t be left unattended.
The broom and I got to know one another really well again, while I swept and re-swept my kitchen… and then re-swept it again, in an effort to pass OSHA’s inspection of Glass Cleanup with Tiny Bare Feet Living in the House.
And then, I don’t know WHAT made me think about it… but I give the credit all to Jesus… because the thought popped into my migraine-influenced brain that Thing 2 had smashed into the light bulb with his head. I called him over, and YES.
My guess was spot-on correct.
You know those long curls we’ve let him grow out this summer?
And they were filled with seventy-seven thousand glass shards.
I sat that small boy down, and… exactly like a monkey mama would have done… I picked through his hair… and picked through his hair… and picked through his hair.
You never realize that stuff JUST STICKS in the tight curls of cute little curly-topped boys, until you own a cute little curly-topped boy. I think I spent a solid twenty minutes picking nearly-microscopic bits of glass out of my baby’s hair and grooming him like the primates do.
And then I went BACK to the sofa, armed with my iPhone and Candy Crush, while I told Thing 2, “Watch all the You Tube videos you like. It’s your UNLIMITED SCREEN TIME Day of Victory, in celebration of your brother’s sixteenth birthday.”
Slowly… slowly… slowly… the migraine began to fade yesterday afternoon.
And then we were off to VBS at our church at 5:30 last night. I was scheduled to work the registration desks, which I normally think is FUN, FUN, FUN… TIMES EIGHTY. I love to chat with the families as they come in and get to know the kids really quickly as they sign up and get their name tags printed, but last night, my mind was on one thing:
My boy was going to be driving himself RIGHT THEN from the golf course on one side of our town to the church on the exact opposite side of our town. He was going to have some highway driving to do, and WHAT IF HE FAILED TO LOOK BOTH WAYS, AS HE PULLED OUT ONTO THE HIGHWAY WHERE TRAFFIC WAS FLOWING AT SIXTY-FIVE MILES AN HOUR?
Y’all, I could barely concentrate on my registering.
“Welcome to VBS! You’re name is Abby? Is that with a -y? Yes? Let me write your name down here… Wait a minute… WHAT WAS YOUR NAME AGAIN?” And then I’d look at the clock, and realize that it had only been four seconds since I’d last looked at it, and WHY WASN’T THE BOY AT THE CHURCH YET? “Oh, yes! Abby, with a -y. Let me just write your name on this name tag… A-B-B-I-E. There you go, Abbie. I hope you have so much fun tonight at VBS.”
And then I looked over at my darling friend, Libby, who was working right beside me at the registration desk. She was very busy filling out all the little cards that I was supposed to do, but which I forgot to do, because WHY ISN’T THE BOY AT THE CHURCH YET? And HOW has it only been seventeen seconds since I last looked at the clock??!!
Thank goodness Libby picked up all the slack, as I missed doing my little registration job completely last night.
The boy arrived, safe and sound, at 6:16.
At 6:16, I felt the stress leave my body in a giant wave of exhaustion.
Which is when Abby came back up and said, “I just have a -Y on the end of my name, but this tag has an -IE there.”
“Well, Abby with a -y… some day you’re going to grow up to be a mother, and your sixteen year old is going to drive himself across the county ON THE HIGHWAY, while you hold your breath for the ENTIRE sixteen minutes that it takes him to get there, and you’ll think you might just PASS PLUM DADGUM OUT from a total lack of oxygen, especially after you spent a chunk of time picking glass shards out of a partial Afro, but here! Let me re-write your name tag for you, because you’re about as cute and sweet as a little girl can be.”
I wrote A-B-B-E-Y.
Which is about the same time I realized that I just needed to call it quits for yesterday, but our fun wasn’t over.
The boy walked by the registration table, which should have also been called THE TABLE WHERE THIS LADY CAN’T SPELL YOUR NAME CORRECTLY, and pulled up his pant leg.
“Hey, Ma? Remember how I got stung yesterday in the calf?”
Yes. How could I forget? The boy has now been stung SEVEN ENTIRE TIMES by wasps and hornets this summer.
Clearly, this is an indication that he’s failing as a bee whisperer.
The boy pointed at his leg.
It was roughly the size of a whale and the color of a glowing tomato, while his foot was as thick as a giant Sequoia tree.
Which is why he ended up coming home from VBS for a birthday dinner of liquid Benadryl. Enjoy your birthday NAP tonight, Son! See you in fifteen hours!
And THAT, y’all, is how we celebrated August 8th. Our life is so exciting, people want to be us.
Happy Tuesday night, everyone.