It’s a pretty safe guess to assume that NO. No, I did nothing even remotely resembling housework over the weekend, because why would I? Hubs and I had to get to Starbucks early on Saturday morning before we ventured up the mountain to collect the boy from camp. And then we brought the boy and his new friend D down the mountain. And we took both of them to McDonald’s, because THAT! IS WHAT ! THEY REQUESTED! Hubs and I had a hard time coming to grips with the fact that DID YOU NOT REMEMBER THAT PINK SLIME IS ONE OF THEIR SPECIAL BURGER RECIPE INGREDIENTS?, but we persevered anyway and ordered chicken, because that seemed like a safe alternative. The boys were famished from all that mountain air, and they both ate two entire hamburgers and fries and suicide-sodas. I think the boy may have corrupted D there, because D had no idea what a suicide drink was. He didn’t leave McDonald’s still in the dark, people. The boy hauled him to the drink machine and showed him how you can squirt a hit of every soda option available into the same cup and give it a good stir with a straw, and the recipe you get is different every time, depending on how heavy you go on the Dr. Pepper.
After we had choked down lunch and tried to mentally shut out thoughts of PINK SLIME! PINK SLIME! PINK SLIME!, I tackled the boy’s laundry, because I can only handle so many hours of smelling wet clothes in a bag. Most people have a heightened sense of smell during their pregnancies, and I was no exception — I could actually SMELL dirty dishes in a kitchen sink while I was standing outside in the yard — but, sadly, my heightened sense of smell is now a super power. All I lack is a cape. Suffice it to say that I could smell things in that bag of wet / somewhat wet / totally filthy clothes that no one else except a police dog could accomplish.
So I washed them.
And then we drove out to Small Mountain Town, where Hubs and Brother helped their dad hang a brand new set of gorgeous double doors, while I soundly beat my nephews at a new game where you throw balls onto a tiny trampoline and try to land them in circular pockets for points. Hubs’ mama had purchased the game for the kids, so that they’d all be sufficiently entertained indoors because of RAIN! RAIN! RAIN! And even though they kept braving the rain to run outside and shoot pellet guns at pop cans, they kept coming back INSIDE because of the nasty chill in the air. I sat in the overstuffed leather chair with my feet propped on the overstuffed leather ottoman like I was a celebrity at a day spa and watched the entertainment unfold in front of my eyes, as the kids all challenged one another to game after game after game of throwing those red and yellow balls at the tiny trampoline and hoping that their aim was good enough to bounce those balls straight into the cup labeled FOUR POINTS.
After one hundred and nine different games to twenty points had shaken down, I was challenged, and I want to tell you that I was a bit leery, because I was convinced that those talented little children were going to use my losing butt to polish their scorecards with.
As luck would have it, I TOTALLY OWNED THAT GAME! I beat the snot out of everyone, because I was in the two-point zone. Every time my ball hit the mini trampoline, BOOM! It landed in the two-point cup. With three balls to throw every turn, I was getting six points all the time. I would just like to go on record and say, YES! I beat all of those kids, except for Cousin B, who decided not to play me, because he could clearly see that I was in the zone, with The Eye of the Tiger playing loudly in the background.
And on Sunday? Well, there was church, and then Hubs’ friend, Greg, came over with his tractor, and the big boys moved dirt at our house, because we really ARE the home in the cul de sac that looks like it could be featured on a reality television show involving people who fish in swamps in their overalls with their bare hands. Our yard work has never become what you would refer to as FINISHED, but dirt is moving around these parts now.
In another twelve years, we ought to have it all done.
And that, people, is how the weekend shook down. So yesterday, the boy and I put on our TOUGH IT OUT attitudes, and we went to Walmart for the enormous, lots-of-dollars-involved haul. We needed everything, from yogurt and Ranch dressing to toilet paper and fabric softener. Walmart was full of slow people who kept stopping in the aisles with their carts and slowing us down, when we were on a mission to GET ‘ER DONE. Walmart yesterday would have killed Hubs dead.
(You’re welcome, Hubs. The boy and I laid on that grenade for the family. You can take us to Disneyland as a thank-you.)
Of course, the big haul at the super center involves a whole lot of unpacking when you get home, which is tedious at best, and nerve-wracking at worst. And then we got down to the business of vacuuming, scrubbing and scouring. Here is where I need to give a gigantic shout-out to my firstborn, because HOLY SNEEZES, SEVEN DWARFS! That kid got in there and he cleaned like a mad man right alongside of me.
I have never loved him more.
Well, I released him from a day of chores, and he made some phone calls, which is why our family room ended up looking like this last night:
For. The. Day.
At 4:50 this morning, my hair resembled Medusa’s, as I worked as hard as a squirrel in a peanut processing factory to get that baby BACK TO SLEEP. He was having none of it, and INSISTED that he was good to go.
It’s also why I had enjoyed three cups of hot half-and-half and sugar, with a touch of coffee, before 9:30 this morning.
But yes. Summer vacation is officially in full swing at the Jedi Manor, and we couldn’t be happier. Especially since we get SUCH LONG DAYS during our summer vacation, what with Thing 2 living here and being such a morning sort of baby.
Happy Tuesday night, y’all.