Our Mother’s Day Weekend went down fast and furious.
It was plum perfect.
On Friday afternoon, the boy’s good buddy, John, came down from Bigger Town, USA so that he could spend the entire weekend with us. It was like our home had been turned into a college dorm, except that I didn’t have to wake them up in the mornings, because, unlike teenage boys, these two ten-year-olds got up at the crack of You Have Got to Be Kidding each day. I did, however, have to encourage them to shower and get some of the filth off of their bodies, because ten-year-old boys are unconcerned with the fact that they look like cavemen and smell even worse. Other than those minor differences, the boys hammed it up in the Jedi Dorm, as they ate their way through the minimal amount of junk food stored in my pantry while they talked about how wonderful it would be if they had been born pirates, and could sail the high seas with freedom and independence, with a parrot on their shoulders, the wind in their faces, no mothers to boss them around and unwashed hair.
I told them that they’d both develop scurvy from eating too many Pop Tarts.
On Friday evening, I looked a moment of genuine brilliance square in the face, as I told the boys, “Listen. We have MANY small sticks scattered hither and yon in our yard, because the wind has blown them out of the trees all winter, and now I need to mow, which means they need picked up. I will grant you boys one minute of video game time this weekend for every stick you collect, put into the wheelbarrow and cart to the green dumpster.”
And then because I knew that neither the boy nor John pays much attention to the clock, I wouldn’t even have to worry about it. I could say, after twenty minutes, “Yes! You really DID use up all of your stick-collecting minutes on Lego Indiana Jones already! Time flies when you’re having fun on the Wii!”
Hubs and I kicked back with our coffee cups filled high, while the small slaves boys worked in the yard. At one point, I leaned over to Hubs and whispered, “THIS is why we had children!”
And then I immediately regretted the fact that Hubs and I only owned ONE child, because I could have finished up my entire weekend list of chores on Friday night, if I’d had about seven more of them.
I do have to say that the boy and John did a right-smack-fine job of picking up sticks. I was thoroughly proud of the job that they did, and I easily granted their request to trade video game minutes for TV time, because they wanted to watch Pirates of the Caribbean. They had earned 1,100 stick minutes — Yes, people! We had that many tiny sticks all over our yard from the winter winds attacking the old trees! — which easily translated into three hours of movie time.
1,100 minutes = 3 hours. Don’t argue with me on this! The boys didn’t, regardless of the fact that they’re both plenty smart enough to have done the math and called me out on it.
On Saturday morning, we loaded the family-plus-one into the Suburban, and we went to watch the boys’ friends play soccer, because there was a big tournament in town. The sun was shining. The wind wasn’t blowing.
And Hubs and I had been up since the crack of You Have Got to Be Kidding, because we’d heard pirate shrieks followed by a sword fight in our family room.
The boy and John and Hubs and I cheered on lots of little men, as they battled to score more goals than their opponents did.
We cheered for Kellen, the Wonder Goalie.
Of course, I couldn’t resist a few group shots, either. These boys have known one another since they were basically TODDLERS! The boy met Kellen when they were each three years old, and then he met Patrick and John when they were four.
Because the final game of the day was at 6:30 on Saturday evening, Kellen’s mom, Sarah, packed up a little tailgate party for everyone, which was a little classier than the hot dogs and chips Hubs and I would have been prone to do. Sarah did sassy little crackers and goat cheese and raspberry preserves and pretzels and grown-up beverages for everyone.
Except the wine and the Fat Tires were hidden in a cooler and distributed in unmarked cups, because Sarah said, “I haven’t seen a sign stating that we can slurp Fat Tires during the evening soccer game, but then I haven’t seen a sign saying that we can’t.” If you wanted a drink, you simply got a cup and wandered over to the cooler. If you knew the secret knock at the speakeasy, you could get some Chardonnay.
It was exactly like being back in college again.
Except we wouldn’t have had the sassy crackers and goat cheese, because we would have just had cheap Cheetos.
At the end of Saturday, Hubs and I took the boy and John home, and discussed how perfect the day had been. In between soccer games, we had come back home to mow and set the trampoline up for the coming summer. We’d hauled our deck furniture out of storage and set it out. We’d spent some time with good friends, cheering the boy’s buddies through all their soccer games, and it had been a fantastic day.
On Sunday morning, the boy and Hubs made me a cup of Coffee Mate flavored with genuine coffee, and they gave me my gift.
My gift, which was a set of silver, feminine dog tags engraved with the boy’s name and birth date, and the word LOVE. The tags were on a beautiful chain, accompanied by a lovely pearl, and I was stunned! It was the best Mother’s Day gift of all time!
We went to church on Sunday morning, where I proudly showed my incredible dog tags to everyone.
Even our good friend, Andy.
Andy. The man who said, “So if you’re killed in action, when I go to look at your dog tags, all I’ll know about you is that you were some crazy woman who loved a boy with a birthday in August. I’ll have no idea where to ship your remains, so I’d just bury you at sea.”
Andy has a spiritual gift to be very uplifting with his words.
The sermon on Sunday was great. It was from Mark 5, when Jesus commands the demons to come out of Legion, and then casts them into the pigs. When Legion is healed and in his right mind, the people in the area came to see the results of the miracle, and they were so afraid, they asked Jesus to leave. Pastor John told us that sometimes we’re so frightened by what Jesus wants to do in our lives, that we’re simply more comfortable hanging out with our old familiar sins.
I’ve been thinking about that all weekend.
After church on Sunday, Hubs and I took the boy and John to the golf course, where we bought them two enormous buckets of balls to smack at the driving range.
We kicked back on a cozy bench together and watched them hit golfballs, and we came to the realization that our boy has some Golfing Talent.
Some INCREDIBLE Golfing Talent.
The boy, you see, can PLUM WHACK a golfball, and he can do it accurately.
Hubs and I decided to start grooming him for the PGA. The reason that the boy doesn’t play traveling soccer with all of his friends is that he doesn’t LOVE soccer. He simply sighed on Sunday while he was hitting balls and said, “Mom, is there a traveling golf league that I could be in?”
And then he said, “Don’t you wish that golf could just go on and on forever?”
I didn’t tell him that I really DO FEEL LIKE it goes on and on forever, especially when I am waiting for him to PLEASE JUST FINISH UP NOW AND GET YOUR CLUBS IN YOUR BAG BEFORE MAMA HAS A SMALL STROKE!
After golfing had wrapped itself up, and after we’d assured the boy that NO! NO, WE COULDN’T JUST PLAY NINE QUICK HOLES! And NO! NO, WE CAN’T GO SPEND AN HOUR PUTTING NOW! we drove out to Small Mountain Town to visit Hubs’ mama for Mother’s Day. Even though it was Mother’s Day, she still gave gifts to the boy.
Gifts called Kit Kat candy bars!
The boy may or may not have eaten many, many of them.
And then we drove back into Small Town, USA, where we had a quick dinner with my mom and dad. Hubs had been marinating chicken in hot sauce all day. He said that it shouldn’t just be mothers who are honored on Mother’s Day, because he felt like honoring himself with a piece of spicy chicken grilled to perfection.
For the record, my mom and I had teriyaki chicken because we had no strong desire to vaporize our tongues on Mother’s Day.
And that, people, is exactly how our Mother’s Day Weekend panned out.
In 24,000 words or less.