On Saturday morning, we were up, bright and early, because I had a coffee date with a small cluster of girls. Since I adore congregating at Starbucks with my girlfriends, it was a date that I was looking forward to.
My coffee date was at 8:00 on Saturday morning.
The boy had spent Friday night at his friend Enzo’s house, which meant that Hubs and I didn’t have to get up on Saturday morning, nor would we awaken to the boy’s little feet scurrying across the hardwood floors before the rooster crowed, as he went in search of Pop Tarts, so I did suffer a bit of a lecture from Hubs about crawling out of bed at an unholy hour on a Saturday.
But, people! It was Starbucks! I could probably crawl into the shower at 4:00 in the morning, if someone promised me some time on the leather sofa seats at the local Bucks with a cup of piping hot caffeine and my darling friends.
Hubs decided that we were dysfunctional, what with us getting up extremely early when the boy wasn’t home to wake us up, because the boy refuses to sleep in. Ever. Hubs assured me that normal married couples SLEEP IN on Saturdays, when their children aren’t around, and that dysfunctionalism had finally encroached upon us.
I assured him that it wasn’t getting up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning that made us dysfunctional; instead, it was the conversation that we had in the bathroom at 7:15 on Saturday morning that put us into the dysfunctional territory.
Hubs, who had hauled himself out of bed before 7:00 as well, since I’d already disturbed his precious Saturday morning sleep-in and completely ruined his day, decided that we needed some music, so he set the iPod to run through one of Taylor Swift’s albums.
(And does anyone even pronounce the word album out loud anymore? Does that date me? Does that allow everyone to know that I existed in a time when vinyl albums were what music was recorded on? Should I simply say CD, when referring to a collection of Taylor Swift’s songs? What’s the current terminology?)
Taylor began singing the lyrics about little Romeo, and she belted out, “You’ll be the prince and I’ll be the princess.”
I turned to Hubs, as I was applying mascara, and said, “Do you want to be the prince, and I’ll be the princess?”
Hubs said, “Sure.”
I said, “Great. But let’s say that the throne goes through MY line. I’m the princess, and you’re the prince, but I’ll be the one who becomes the queen someday, and you’ll just be the guy who’s married to the queen. Kind of like Queen Elizabeth’s husband.”
Hubs looked at me and answered, “No way. I’ll be the heir to the throne, and you can be the no-name queen who doesn’t get to rule the country at all, while I give all the orders and make all the laws.”
“Nope. The throne comes through MY parents, and because they had no male heir to the throne, what with me not having any brothers, I’ll rule the country someday, and you can host weekend brunches for something to do.”
“Then I’m going to attack your country, and overthrow your throne.”
(Isn’t that what a guy would instantly say? Attack? If things don’t go right in his country, he attacks. Girls would have had everyone over for coffee first, to try to talk things out.)
I replied, “I’ll stop you at the border of my country, and I’ll have some really tough soldiers keep you from entering the country. You won’t even get across my borders.”
“I’ll attack your really tough soldiers, and I’ll storm the castle. I’ll bring cannons.”
“I’ll stop your advancement before you even reach my castle. Like I said, you won’t get across the border and actually set foot in my country.”
And Hubs replied, “Your fairies are no match for my cannons!”
THIS is what makes us dysfunctional around here. It’s not the fact that we were up early on Saturday morning.
I think it’s why the good Lord only gave us one small boy. It’s because we’re allowed to mess up one kid with our craziness, but no others…