Before I go any further, I just thought that I would tell y’all that I had a dream last night.
Our family had six Wookies.
Yes, Wookies. As in, six pet Chewbacas. And all six of them were approximately three inches tall, and the boy kept them in an aquarium in his bedroom. They all wore their gunbelts and their bands of bullets slung across their chests, and they climbed little ladders that were set up here and there throughout the aquarium, and they dreamed of one day escaping captivity on the Millennium Falcon. And every now and then, I would pop the top off the aquarium and hand them earthworms to eat.
Knowing this, you may not even want to read any further tonight. You have been warned.
Well, our Mother’s Day Weekend was actually quite normal around here.
It all started on Friday morning, which was obviously The Holy Day Of Eating. Hubs and I had a breakfast date at a swanky coffee shop in the city (Sorry, Starbucks. We threw you under the bus on Friday.), where we devoured cinnamon rolls the size of basketballs and chatted.
And then I went to lunch with a whole pack of girls, because it was Amy’s big birthday celebration. We went to a little Chinese restaurant, and all of us crowded in around the table and swapped babies back and forth, because there were plenty of babies in our group to share. We all ordered off the menu and ate platters of sodium and questionable meat disguised as pork.
(I say that the meat may or may not have been pork, because I know for a SOLID FACT that Sister’s Husband’s Brother [Did you keep up with that?] used to catch turtles years ago and sell them at the backdoor to the Chinese restaurant. He got $5 for small turtles and $10 for large turtles, and I always went to the happy place in my mind that simply said the Chinese family was keeping them as pets in a giant aquarium.)
(Kind of like you do when you have a miniature Chewbaca and his band of five brothers living at your house.)
And then, because we hadn’t consumed enough calories yet, we all drove over to Amy’s house to hit the cake and ice cream, because what birthday is complete without it?
On Friday afternoon, we watched Cousin K play some soccer, and in the process of grabbing the diaper bag and the bottle and making sure I had packed extra diapers and getting Thing 2 buckled into his carseat, I nearly managed to leave my camera sitting on my dining room table. That would have been a total shame, because this was K’s very last game of the season, and he ran like a squirrel. After the game, his face turned green, because one boy’s mama brought green Fruit Roll-Ups for post-game snacks. Green faces always make for a special Kodak moment.
Unless your camera battery is dead.
Which mine was by the end of the game. But, I did snag a few cute shots of Cousin K playing soccer, since I had actually run back inside to… you know… GET the camera before we left the house.
I know. (And don’t judge us.) I swore off fast food, and most especially I criticized McDonald’s and their reputation of infusing their burgers with pink slime, but on Friday night, the boy was begging to hit the red-headed clown’s establishment, so we did.
And then we went home to die from all the crap that we’d eaten throughout the day.
(Obviously, my choice of words just bumped Jedi Mama, Incorporated into PG-13 territory tonight. I apologize. There just aren’t enough words to adequately describe our food intake on Friday, and CRAP pretty much ties it into a tidy little nutshell of description.)
On Saturday morning, ’round 2:30, Thing 2 got up for a bottle, which he slurped right down, and then that crazy baby grinned at me. And then he giggled. And then I pinched his cheeks, which made him giggle EVEN MORE, and then I tickled his chin, because, people, HOW COULD I POSSIBLY RESIST? The end result was even more hysterical giggling from the baby, and then he was WIRED.
As in, WIDE STINKING AWAKE, like someone had filled his bottle with Mountain Dew instead of Similac. He didn’t go back to sleep until 4:30 AM, and Hubs whispered, “I would just like to officially go on the record and say that this was all YOUR fault, because you made eye contact with him and encouraged all the giggling.”
Yes, Your Honor. I realized the errors of my ways on Giggle Number Nine, and Hubs and I have made a solid pact that there will be no more cheek pinches or chin chucks when the moon is out. We’ll save all of that for the daylight hours.
Of course Thing 2 got up at his usual time of 5:45 on Saturday morning, and Mama felt like she had been caught beneath the blades of a John Deere riding lawn mower.
Since I couldn’t possibly have felt any worse, I sat down at the table and paid the bills. It was the Great Money Exchange Day, as Hubs and I gave his paycheck away in small chunks to lots of different people, and then I began wondering if Hubs shouldn’t just go on ahead and get a second job.
I mean, really. I have two jobs.
And then, with the bills paid and Thing 2 ready for a nap, we drove out to watch some soccer games, because there was an enormous soccer tournament in town this last weekend, which drew approximately 5,000 visitors to Small Town, USA.
Our restaurants thrived.
Our motels were booked solid.
Parking spots were as hard to find as Big Foot is.
The boy’s cousins and good buddies were all playing, so Hubs put Thing 2 in what we like to call “The Hangover Pack” and wore him on his chest all day.
And Thing 2 loves “The Hangover Pack.” He slept and slept and SLEPT in it on Saturday morning, and that is saying something, because Thing 2 doesn’t believe in the healing powers of a good nap. Thing 2 is more of an anti-nap lobbyist. I may start sending him in the pack to work with Hubs.
Everyone played great soccer on Saturday.
Cousin W manned the defensive lines well, and prevented 498 shots from reaching his goalie. Way to go, Dub-ya.
We got to see the boy’s good friend Quinn play a lot of soccer on Saturday, too. He was in desperate need of a haircut, according to his sweet mama, and he had the European Look going on with his headband.
Headband or not, that boy played some outstanding soccer on Saturday afternoon, and he even managed to snag a goal of his own, too.
Kellen was out at the soccer tournament with us, and he and the boy made a couple of trips back and forth between all the games and the concession stand. When you’re a boy and you’re eleven years old, it is hard to go forty-five entire minutes without a meal.
Kellen had jalapenos on his hot dog. The boy ate one. Hubs declared that they are officially MEN now.
Or even more red Gatorade.
Or pirates counting their loot.
They managed to come up with enough money for kettle corn, but I think that’s because a smiling adult handed them some extra cash in the form of PAPER.
On Saturday evening, we got to watch Cousin M play soccer. We haven’t gotten to watch him play this season yet, because every time that we can go, he’s playing out of town, so Saturday was a treat to finally see him in action.
(It should also be noted that M’s team won the championship game in his division.)
(And that Cousin M may or may not have scored the game-winning goal in said championship game.)
(Yay, M! We are so proud of you!)
The boy went to a birthday party where all of his friends were hanging out, and he reported it to be one of the very best parties of all time, because HELLO! Scavenger Hunt in the cemetery! And pizza! And wrestling his friends! And boys chasing girls! And a movie! And all of his friends were there!
I didn’t have quite as much fun as the boy did. I ended up with a migraine, and I went to bed to die.
And that was Saturday.
On Sunday, the boy and Hubs showered me with flowers and framed paintings by my favorite artist (READ: The Boy.) and cards, because it was Mother’s Day.
And we went to church. Thing 2 stayed awake for the entire service and made noise. Lots of noise. Lots and lots of noise. So much noise, in fact, that Thing 2 had to be taken out of the sanctuary four different times so that he didn’t prevent people from getting A Word. Thing 2 was HAPPY, and he wanted to talk and squeal and giggle while the sermon was going on. Thing 2 has a difficult time being serious.
And then we went out to eat with my parents and Sister and her family, because my mama treated us to a Mother’s Day lunch at a little hotspot in Small Town. I had a delicious grilled salmon and asparagus. Hubs had a meal that had the words Southern Fried and Gravy in the title.
He immediately regretted that choice on the way home, because he said his gut was going to explode and that he felt like he might surely die.
This is the big one, Elizabeth!
So he laid down on the sofa to recover, and he took his two-hour Mother’s Day nap.
And then we went out for Mother’s Day ice cream.
Hubs just had a drink.
The Southern Fried and all the Gravy still hadn’t been digested.
And then the boy threw his ice cream in the trash and said, “I’m going to throw up. I need to go home.”
So we did. And the boy put himself to bed at 6:30. He self-diagnosed himself: Sore throat. Stomach ache. Headache. Need to sleep.
And he spent the entire day in bed today, listening to books on CD. (Because that is much easier than actually… you know… READING them.) I’m happy to say that the boy is going to pull through, and he’ll probably be back running around at recess tomorrow.
And that, in a long-winded nutshell, is how Mother’s Day Weekend ’12 went down at Casa del Jedi.
Happy Monday night, people.