Pretend That There Is A Catchy Title Right Here

I’m not even going to lie to you.  I’ve had a little stomach bug all day today, and I’m fairly certain that I caught it from my 7-year-old nephew, K.  I hold him fully responsible.  He had it earlier.

Of course, I also stayed in my pajamas all day and moaned about how my belly was a bit queasy, which may have been directly related to the thick slice of Oreo pie that I ate for breakfast, with the chocolate chip cookie chaser.  I’m leaning more towards that being a poor bit of judgement, rather than a breakfast of champions.  No matter.  Any day when you get to stay in your pajama bottoms and your big, green, sloppy T-shirt is a good day, so WIN!

I also pretty much caught my washing machine on fire with all the laundry I did today, so I’m sitting here tonight feeling quite productive, and I DID IT ALL WHILE WEARING FLANNEL PANTS.

Princesses want to be me.

And now… on to our weekend, because if I don’t recap the weekend, I really have nothing to write about tonight.  I just summed up what I did all day, and it wasn’t all that glamorous.

On Friday evening, the boy had his last soccer game of the season, and we were ready for the end to happen.  You can only cram so much into a week’s schedule, and something was due to give.  I went to the game with absolutely zero-point-zero cares regarding who won, just so long as the game ENDED, closed out the fall soccer season, and freed up some room on our calendar.  The boys were in high spirits, and they spent their warm-up time wrestling one another in the grass, instead of doing ball skills and running laps around the field, like their opponents were doing.


The game was in full swing, with a scoreless scoreboard, when Kellen, who was playing goalie for us, took a direct kick to the face from five feet out.  Do you know what that does to a nose?  I won’t show you the pictures that one of the dads took with his cell phone and forwarded on to everyone, because this is a family-oriented blog.  We’d have to move it to a PG-13 rating, what with all the blood and guts that Kellen displayed on Friday.  Suffice it to say that Kellen’s nose POURED THE BLOOD like a faucet on FULL SPRAY.

POURED, I say.  Fire hoses wish that they had a gallons-per-minute ratio like Kellen’s nose experienced.

And then his nose bled for the entire second half of the game, and there was much talk about IS IT BROKEN? and SHOULD WE HIT THE EMERGENCY ROOM JUST FOR A QUICK LOOK?

And then the boy decided that Kellen shouldn’t be the only player on the disabled list, so he had a full-on asthma attack…

…and his inhaler, which I always have in the Suburban, was at home, in his golf bag, in our garage.  And that, people, is a great place for an inhaler to be, when your son can’t suck in enough air to breathe.

After asking everyone in the crowd if they had a dose of albuterol on them, we hit pay dirt with our friend, Penny.  She shoved her daughter’s inhaler at the boy, and after four puffs, he could breathe again and was no longer suffocating on all the LACK OF AIRFLOW.

We lost, 0 to 3 (or something like that), but there were ice cream bars from the Dairy Queen afterward.  Plus, the boy could breathe, Kellen was no longer spraying blood all over the place, and soccer was finished, so BIG YAY!

Hubs took the boy and Enzo to the Small Town High football game, and Thing 2 and I stayed behind, because listen:  Thing 2 sleeps through the night.  He goes to bed at 7:30 every night.  Regardless of my love for hometown high school football games in the bleachers with all of our friends, I wouldn’t risk messing up  Thing 2’s bedtime schedule for all the nuggets in the California gold rush!  Our nights are golden right now, people; we’re sticking with the same routine, every  night.

So, Thing 2 and I stayed at the soccer fields and watched the boys’ cousin, L, play her game.  L is a natural-born soccer player.  She understands the game; she runs like the wind; she can dribble the ball through traffic better than most everyone else on her team.  She’s a blast to watch in action.

Plus, she’s cute.

Thing 2 and Little Cousin H hung out together at the game.  They’re not quite sure that they really like one another yet.

H had some serious plans for Thing 2 on Friday night.

“Look at him over there, getting ready to eat a dried-up leaf.  He’s missing a sock; he’s drooled all over his sweatshirt.  He looks homeless, and he yells in my face entirely too much.  I’m going to use my two hands like a clamp, and I’m going to put his head in a vice trap.  If I squeeze my hands together, I can pinch his noggin good and proper.”

“Yep… I’ll just smoosh my hands closed when I have them around his head… He won’t see it coming.”

“Boom!  My plan won’t fail!”

“Or maybe… MAYBE I’ll just stuff dried leaves in his ear…”  POKE!

“Crud!  I missed his ear, and the dang leaf is stuck in the hood of his sweatshirt.  Those fine motor skills can’t come in soon enough!”

And then, true to his personality, Thing 2 could only take so much abuse, before he dished some out himself.

Thing 2 said, “That’s not drool on my sweatshirt!  It’s SWEAT from all the push-ups I’ve been doing!  And I kick soccer balls BAREFOOT, which is why my sock is off!  I won’t take your verbal abuse any longer, Grasshopper!”  And then he smacked her a good one.

And she grabbed his ear.

“Do you EVER wash these things?  I haven’t seen this many potatoes in all of Idaho!”

Eventually, Cousin H had a jacket put on her, and she traded fighting with Thing 2 for standing up by the bleachers.  Isn’t she pretty?

I’m fairly certain I heard Thing 2 mumble, “Bleacher licker,” under his breath…

Oh, look!  There’s Cousin K.  He was at the game, too.  And then he got the stomach bug, so I know he passed it down to me.

When L had finished kicking and scoring and running like David Bekham, Thing 2 and I came home.  He had his nightly bath, and we washed the dried leaves off of him that Little H had decorated him with.

And maybe I should be embarrassed to tell y’all this, but Thing 2 and I were both in bed when Hubs brought the boy home from the football game.  Old age and babies will make a girl celebrate a Friday evening with an 8:00 bedtime.

On Saturday morning, the boys’ cousin, Miss A, came over.  Thing 2 knows that Miss A is good for food, and she came through again this weekend.  She gave him Snickerdoodle cookies and yogurt.  He declared that she was his best friend.

Goodness knows, I appreciate a full day spent in the pajamas, and so does Miss A.  And her ensemble on Saturday would have made Liberace’s heart dance with all the colorful, sparkly happiness.

On Saturday afternoon, we had a surprise visit from a friend of mine from high school.  Jan was in town from Neighboring State, and she and her two kids dropped by for a visit.  We sat on the sofa in my living room and talked and talked and talked.  It was good to catch up.

On Saturday night, Hubs and I had a double date with our friends, Tyler and Heather.  We went to a new smokehouse that Brother and Brother’s Wife have raved about.  I had chicken fried steak, because nothing spells out COMFORT FOOD like white gravy on a piece of breaded, fried-up beef.

And then I went to bed, because that was a lot to do in one day, and my bones are old and weary.

On Sunday, we went to church, where Thing 2 was his usual, disruptive self.

And then we came home and did nothing.  We were having company for dinner, so we had enormous plans to pick up the house and pretend that we live in a Better Homes and Gardens environment, but then we decided to just loaf around all day and let the truth be known:  We’re slobs.

Gabe and Jodi and their kids came over for dinner last night.  Hubs grilled chicken, and I made pasta, and Jodi brought AN OREO PIE that made me very, VERY happy.

So happy, in fact, that I ate the lone leftover slice for breakfast this morning.

And I’m pretty sure that’s what caused my belly ache, so I should probably let Cousin K off the germ-sharing hook.

Happy Monday night, folks.

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