My day started out in the usual way, which included me putting all of my eyelashes into my handheld eyelash curler and squeezing down. The result I was hoping for — as I hope for every single morning — is that my lashes would come out of that big squeeze long and lush and perfectly curled.
Most days, they emerge from the big squeeze still looking stubby and sticking forward like a bad cowlick on a freckle-faced little boy. The picture on the package that my eyelash curler came in, straight from Walmart, lied to me. The pictures seemed to show that I was going to double the volume of my lashes, triple the length, and curl them up in a beautiful bit of glory that would put the Rave home permanent out of business. No matter. I have squeezed my eyelashes in that thing every morning for years now, and I’ve never achieved the results in the package photos.
Clearly, I am one that holds onto optimism longer than I probably should.
This morning, I added a little extra to the eyelash curler, in the form of the my eyelid’s inner corner. I had no idea. It was a complete surprise to me.
And then I squeezed the handle, which is how I ended up sitting on the edge of my bathtub, clutching my eye in pain, panting like they teach you to do in a good Lamaze class, and chanting, “It’s a flesh wound! It’s a flesh wound! It’s NOTHING BUT A FLESH WOUND!” When I could finally breathe again and had the courage to look in the mirror, I was relieved to see that I hadn’t just clipped my entire eyelid off, like the pain seemed to indicate.
Sadly, I think my eyelid held more curl than the lashes actually did.
We had a lovely weekend. On Friday, Papa recruited Thing 2 to do a little shoveling for him, at his office. Recruiting Thing 2 to shovel is like recruiting children to taste-test donuts: Thing 2 is in, with his entire heart and biceps. The kid would shovel a trail from here to China, if he could. Shoveling is his love languages.
Neither Thing 2 nor Papa is wearing a coat in that snapshot, because it was 47 entire degrees outside. Take THAT, Texas, while you’re wearing your ski parkas in temps below fifty degrees and building fires in garbage cans to huddle around.
On Friday afternoon, Thing 2 went skating at the ice rink, and then he joined in on a youth Stick and Puck session. He got to take his hockey stick onto the ice and slap pucks all over the place, while he pretended to be in the NHL. It was a free-for-all, with kids skating everywhere and pucks flying through the air in every single direction. Our preschooler had a blast. He came home exhausted and happy, which is how we like him to be.
Our Friday night included a whole lot of nothing, except pajamas, the DVR, Chip and Joanna Gaines, and Jimmy John’s sandwiches.
In other words, Friday night was exactly like a second Christmas.
On Saturday, we watched some hockey.
We got to see our ten-year-old friends — twins, Sam and Henry — play. Thing 2 beat on the glass with every goal they scored and played tag along the edges of the rink with boys who were in the same, sad, sorry state he was in — TOO YOUNG TO BE ON THE ICE IN A HOCKEY GAME WITH 4TH GRADERS.
On Saturday night, while the boy went to dinner with friends and chased it with an evening of bowling, Hubs and Thing 2 and I continued to hang out at the rink to watch Cousin W and Cousin B play hockey.
Throughout the entire game, Thing 2 kept begging for quarters to put into the candy machine. Throughout the entire game, his parents kept telling him no, no and also NO. Eventually, Thing 2 ditched us and took his requests straight to the Big Guy — Papa. Papa came through for him, in the form of quarters and genuine paper dollar bills, all of which could be inserted into the machine in exchange for sugary treats.
It was everything Willie Wonka intended for kids.
… THIS is what a preschool boy looks like when the machine is found to be OUT OF ORDER, and isn’t accepting money in exchange for Starburst candies.
On Sunday morning, we were back at the ice rink by 7:30.
Yes. You read that right. WE WERE AT THE ICE RINK AT 7:30 AM, ON A SUNDAY.
Apparently, hockey players like to get a head start on the day, exactly like the Army does. And I should clarify that only three of us were at the ice rink — the boy, being sixteen, was still sound asleep in his bed… at home.
We all looked like this on the sidelines:
We cheered for Sam and Henry again, and they produced a win for their enthusiastic crowd again.
Cousin W and Cousin B were back on the ice after that, so we were back watching them push and shove and slap hockey pucks at three trillion miles an hour. I can honestly say that if one of those high school boys was skating toward ME full force, with every intention of slamming me into the boards, I would shout, “OH, MY GOSH! TAKE THE PUCK AND LEAVE ME ALONE! DON’T KNOCK ME DOWN!”
It probably has everything to do with the simple fact that I’d break a hip falling on that ice at my age.
This is a blurry picture of Cousin B, which I took through the glass.
If any of you would like me to show up at YOUR kid’s sporting event, to capture his game with all of my blurry, glare-right-there talent, I would be happy to offer you my services.
When we got home, Thing 2 pulled his hockey sticks and foam pucks out of his toybox and went to town damaging our hardwood floors. The kid shot pucks all over the place and kept yelling, “I’m going to be just like Cousin W! He’s the best hockey player in the whole world!”
I asked Thing 2 at one point how his game was going on Sunday afternoon. He told me, “I’ve scored a hundred goals. I’m kind of a champion.”
We have to work on his humbleness, people.
Also? Well, we found out that when you’re missing your two front teeth, it really IS difficult to eat corn on the cob.
He hates jeans.
I may have mentioned that once or twenty thousand times before.
He asked me today, “Why do you ruin my life with jeans?”
(And the answer is NO. He’s NEVER dramatic.)
I told him that sometimes I’d like to see him wear his nice shirts, which don’t really look all that great with ratty sweatpants or gym shorts.
Thing 2 refers to all jeans as “cowboy pants,” so he made the best of his bad luck this morning, as he chose his own footwear:
He picked his blue cowboy boots and spurs to wear to school with his crappy jeans.
By the time we’d made it across the preschool lobby and to his cubby, where he hangs his coat, so many parents and teachers had commented on Thing 2’s awesome spurs, he was embarrassed. He sat down and yanked his boots right off his feet, as he whispered, “Mom, I don’t want to wear these any more.”
We exchanged them for his snow boots, which I’d brought along with us.
Of course, we had to pull three foam hockey pucks out of the boots before we could put them on, because that’s how mothers of boys roll.
And THAT, y’all, has been our last few days. Have a happy Monday evening.