I feel like I’m basically one of the cool kids tonight, who brought my varsity game to the kitchen. We have had a BUSY day of running here and there and everywhere, and our church’s week of Vacation Bible School starts tonight. I’m working the registration table, because our church apparently isn’t concerned with what kind of person they stick at the welcome desk. She will be the first person these incoming children see tonight, and she is me.
I have to be at my welcoming station by 5:15 this evening, with a pen in my hand and a smile on my face, and my first thought was, “How will dinner work?”
Apparently, I am worried about priorities, as I should be.
It’s because when you’re floating the boat of a Whole30, you sometimes encounter icebergs that you have to steer around. Those icebergs go by the name of SOMETHING BIG IS HAPPENING TONIGHT AT THE DINNER HOUR, SO DON’T THINK YOU CAN JUST GRAB A TACO ROLLED UP IN A PAPER WRAPPER FROM THE LOCAL FAST FOOD JOINT, BECAUSE YOU… CANNOT… EAT… IT. When you’re floating on the Whole30, you must be prepared with a dinner plan, or you’ll be stuck with an apple and the idea that eating the kids’ S’mores at VBS (and not telling anyone) isn’t really THAT BIG OF A SIN.
But tonight, the varsity player inside of me was warmed up, stretched out, and ready to shoot balls from the half-court line. I put dinner in the oven at 4:00, exactly like I’m eighty-seven years old and concerned that I might miss The Wheel of Fortune.
In other words, WINNER, WINNER… CHICKEN DINNER.
In other news, our weekend is over, as they tend to be on Mondays.
On Saturday, the little private Catholic school where I teach put on a golf tournament to raise money for school programs. Tournament players not only got to play eighteen holes of golf, they also got to play poker. Teachers manned the tee boxes at each hole and dealt cards, exactly like we were running a finely-tuned, well-oiled Vegas casino. Draws were made at each hole, cards were recorded, and the aces ended up winning at the clubhouse when it was all over.
This would have made for a very fine Saturday, except IT POURED RAIN at the golf course. AND THEN THE WIND BLEW. And then the temperature never managed to get above a soggy sixty-one degrees. Because we’ve been living on the edge of the sun’s equator all summer and tanning up like bacon in an oven, I showed up at the tournament in a T-shirt. It took me exactly twelve minutes to realize that I was under-dressed and miserable, and the hair that I had curled at 6 AM for the 7 AM tournament was soaked clear through.
All the heartfelt blesses.
But this is Small Town, where the rain doesn’t frighten us, so the tournament was a go. Our second grade teacher and I hunkered down at the twelfth hole, dealing cards like a couple of sharks, while we wiped rain out of our faces. It was very glamorous. Eventually, tournament players took pity on us, and they left us with oversized sweatshirts. We offered to trade four aces for a space heater, but this was a Catholic school tournament, where cheating would tarnish our souls. Eventually, my hands were so cold, I couldn’t even shuffle the cards any longer, and we resorted to spreading them out on the folding table in front of golfers, and swirling them around with our bare hands.
And that’s pretty much how I spent my entire Saturday. I’ve never been so happy to see a clubhouse at a golf course before in my entire life, as we made it back there by 2:00. The giant barbecue was on, burgers were being flipped, and there was HOT COFFEE INSIDE.
I didn’t even mind that I had to drink it straight-up black, because DANG YOU, WHOLE30! We milled around, inside the clubhouse, talking to parents and tournament players and other teachers for a solid hour, as we thawed out and everyone spent money on hot beverages and golf course sweatshirts.
On Sunday, we went to church, and then we came home to paint a bed.
We came home from church…
… to paint a bed.
Thing 2 started climbing out of his crib at the tender age of fifteen months. He was an early-climbing monkey, who wouldn’t stay put for anything. He would climb to the top of the railing on the side of his crib, perch there like a vulture surveying the dinner options below him, and then he would JUMP.
He did this over and over, for the better part of three days, before I realized that my baby was QUITE SERIOUS about the jumping. Hubs and I figured that we had probably better seek a bed alternative, due to the fact that we were going to have a baby with a broken collarbone, while DFS breathed heavily down our necks.
Into the toddler bed he went. It’s a tall ten inches off the ground, so the escape jump was downsized drastically.
Thing 2 has been a rotten sleeper for most of his life, but… over the course of the past year… he has started sleeping better than ever. NOT FANTASTIC. I didn’t say that he was sleeping FANTASTIC. I said he was sleeping BETTER. But SLEEPING BETTER translates into FANTASTIC for us, because our little boy has slept horridly since the day he was born. When he started sleeping better, I became terrified of moving him out of his toddler bed, into a bigger bed.
I thought it would be exactly like poking a sleeping bear during hibernation.
I figured that all the sleeping would cease to exist again.
So… we left Thing 2 in that toddler bed. And now he’s five, and he’s basically one inch away from being longer than the bed actually is. He sleeps in a ball, on that little crib mattress, and we can’t fight it any longer.
Thing 2 needs a new bed.
So Hubs pulled out his saw and his drill, and he built him one.
And now I’m painting it. Painting with an energetic five-year-old in the house who JUST WANTS TO HELP, is a very rewarding part of parenting. So… you know… it didn’t go well yesterday, and we ended up with paint on things we didn’t actually want paint on.
Clearly, I will be painting at night now, like I’m a college girl studying for finals until the wee hours, while my baby sleeps in the fetal position in his tiny, TINY bed.
And… to wrap things up… let me just tell you about our trip to the grocery store this weekend.
We passed a college-aged guy, with an entire sleeve of tattoos. They covered one of his arms, from his wrist to his shoulder. While he was picking out a box of cat litter right next to us, Thing 2 leaned out of the cart and said, “Hey! I really like those coloring book pictures all over your arm!”
And then, as we were pushing our heaped-to-the-sky cart out the doors, a lovely elderly woman was coming in. Thing 2 looked at her and hollered from our cart, “Hey! E-X-I-T spells OUT! You’re coming in the OUT DOOR! Go back, Lady! Go back and come in the right door!”
Y’all have a good Monday evening!