The very biggest news that I have to report is simply this:
(And please envision me standing upon a mountaintop, cupping my hands around my mouth and shouting it out for all the people below to hear.)
We. Have. Slept.
Sister’s husband is off hunting, so we had Sister and her three kids over for dinner on Friday night. I feel like I should also announce that I cooked a pot roast with potatoes and carrots in the crockpot, with a balsamic vinegar glaze, and it was divine. I feel like the Pioneer Woman will probably be asking me to make a guest appearance on her cooking show with that recipe, so I’d better start looking for a cute pair of cowboy boots right now. The kids were all running wild through our house after dinner, and Sister said, “Why don’t I take Thing 2 home with us, so he can have a sleepover with his cousins?”
Hubs and I both widened our eyes and asked, “Where do we sign the permission slip?”
The kids were so excited to set off on their campout adventure, as they planned who would sleep where, and how they’d build blanket forts, and then Thing 2 announced that he was going to start a campfire on the living room floor, which sort of reigned the list of THINGS WE ARE ABOUT TO DO in completely. We packed a little backpack for him to take, with his toothbrush and his jammies, and off he went. He went with excitement and enthusiasm, and that little pack of cousins was laughing with joy.
And then that little stinker slept ELEVEN STRAIGHT HOURS for Sister on Friday night.
I didn’t even care that he’d pulled off one of his very best night’s of sleep in his entire life for my sister, because I HAD ALSO SLEPT. Whereas other parents might have slipped into black cocktail dresses and Ralph Lauren polos, so they could sneak off to a little pub for drinks when their five-year-old was off having fun at a sleepover at his cousins’ house, Hubs and I did the exact opposite.
We went to bed, and we slept like rocks in a dark cave, until the boy’s bedroom alarm blasted off at 6 AM on Saturday, because SOMEONE HAD TO BE AT WORK AT THE GOLF COURSE BY 6:30.
Because OF COURSE HE DID.
Hubs and I didn’t even mind getting up that early, because DID I MENTION ALL THE SLEEPING?! We had an early morning coffee date together, and then we lounged around the house in our pajama pants and our top knots.
Oh, I kid. Hubs wore jeans with his top knot.
I did some laundry. Hubs worked from home on a failing computer system for a bit.
We were refreshed.
And then Sister asked if Thing 2 could just spend the day with them, because she was husbandless, and the kids were having a fantastic time together, and they had no plans to get out of their pajamas all day. I asked where the next set of permission slips should be signed.
And then Hubs and I took the boy to a movie and out to dinner.
And then… Sister called and said, “He wants to spend the night again, and it’s fine with me.”
Hubs and I were both asleep by 9:00 on Saturday night, and I won’t even lie to you: We slept in until 8:00 Sunday morning. We woke up and didn’t even know ourselves any more.
WHO WERE THESE WELL-RESTED ADULTS IN OUR HOUSE?!
We went to church, where Sister announced that our little man had slept another eleven hours straight for her. I considered just having him move in with her. Did she actually WANT four children? Thing 2 came back home with us after church. His days of partying with his cousins were over, so Hubs took him swimming. And then I took him to the playground with one of his good friends.
And then that child went to bed in his own room last night and slept eleven more hours.
In other words, people, our little family has had more sleep in the last three nights than we have had in the last three months combined. If I could stand at a podium on a stage with a microphone right now, my speech would simply go, “I’d like to thank Jesus for making this all possible, and for granting us the desires of our hearts, which was simply SLEEP.”
And THAT was our weekend, y’all.
… back in August, before school started, we had some birthdays in the family. I feel like I’ve slacked tremendously on the blog in the past six weeks, and I still haven’t posted on those birthdays.
(Please envision me hanging my head in shame.)
The boy turned seventeen during that first week of August, and we had a few gifts for him.
Namely, golf clubs. We bought him some brand name clubs, where a single club is equal to a year’s tuition at Yale. Hubs and I debated whether to spend the money or not, because we could have given him a COLLEGE TUITION, for crying out loud. But… give him a college tuition, and he can go on to work after graduation. But give him clubs, and teach the boy to golf, and he can go on to win the PGA Championship and throw dollar bills all over the place.
More specifically, he could throw dollar bills down on the counter at a major department store and buy his mama a Coach purse.
Or even a new Suburban with heated seats.
So, clubs it was. Mam and Pa got him a couple of irons, while Hubs and I bought him a driver. Grammy and Papa gave him money to buy another club with. He was over the moon excited!
It was the ugliest gift given since the wise men began the gift-giving tradition, by riding in on camels and offering myrrh to Baby Jesus.
Behold! The Sasquatch golf club cover!
Mr. Sasquatch now spends his life sitting around, keeping the boy’s new club from being scratched up. I thought he was the most hideous thing I’d ever seen, and I was EMBARRASSED when the boy and his friends headed out with the new clubs AND the Sasquatch, to golf at the prestigious golf course in town.
I said, “What will the people THINK out there?!”
The boy’s friends replied, “That thing is so cool, they’re all going to think, ‘Where’d a kid get something that awesome?’ I should offer to trade him my Rolex for for that ‘Squatch!'”
They actually ARGUED over who got to lug the Sasquatch around that day, which clearly means that Keith and Carrie scored even more brownie points for their gift-giving talents.
We didn’t throw a party for the first time in the history of the boy’s birthdays. Hubs and I sent our seventeen-year-old and his buddies to the golf course, where they golfed the day away and ate steaks and pasta at the clubhouse for lunch. Since the boy proclaimed it to be one of his best birthdays ever, we took the win.
Then, Cousin K turned twelve at the end of August. Sister and her husband rented the outdoor pool in Small Town, USA one evening, so that they could throw him a proper twelfth birthday party.
The kids swam and they swam… and they swam.
They jumped off the diving board, they dove off the diving board, they flipped off the diving board, and they all went down the water slide at least seventy-two times each. Thing 2 himself jumped off the diving board thirteen thousand times, and he went down the slide by himself another twenty-seven thousand, four hundred and eight times.
Poor Cousin L. At fourteen, she’s so incredibly… how do I say this in English?
She’s shy and withdrawn, and she can barely stand to have her picture snapped with a camera. She basically has nothing but a flat, boring personality.
She could use some prayer.
Cousin L is the life of every party, and she makes us all laugh until our sides hurt.
I’m still trying to recover from her demonstration of a Southern Baptist Church preacher on a healing mission this weekend. I laughed so hard, I cried and couldn’t breathe, as she used her best Southern drawl to call me to the alter for some healing.
Cousin K wanted birthday donuts, instead of a birthday cake, so Sister delivered.
And then we all ate donuts, too, because none of us wanted to be left out in celebrating a good twelfth birthday party.
And by all of us… I mean everyone except for Hubs and poor me, who were still in the thick of a Whole30 at the end of August, which meant we could only SMELL the maple-frosted donuts and gripe about our decision to embark on a no-sugar, no-gluten diet during the August party times.
We all hung out at the pool until the sun set and the kids were shivering. They were cold, but they were happy and zipping around on donut highs.
And this one was AWESOME.
Except for the fact that no one played any ’80s music over the pool speakers. That’s basically the only improvement I would have made. How can you even have a pool party without Bananarama singing Cruel Summer or Don Henley belting out the lyrics to The Boys of Summer?
Happy Monday evening, y’all.