I think that you can take this to the horse races and lay your money on it with confidence: Our weekend was rather uneventful.
(Also? I have been to the horse races before, and do you know how I lay my $2 bets down? I pick a name, people. Oh, yes. Don’t tell me if the horse has great feet or good bones or was sired by the pony Jesus once rode. I’m all about the name. I read the list of entries, and then I pick my favorite horse name. And I would put $2 down, because I am a BIG TIME BETTIN’ GIRL. And, more often than not, I would double my money. And $4, people, will buy you a nice little something at Starbucks.)
(What’s in a name? A winner, that’s what.)
(And another thing? Hubs is a little more daring than I am when it comes to betting. Or really, when it comes to most anything. Once, in the presence of the almighty slot machines, Hubs won $40, which I thought was an amazing accomplishment. I may have jumped up and down, right there in the casino, like he’d just struck pay dirt and won an all-time-high, big-millions, state lottery. $40 can do that to me. I was excited about the newly won cash, because DINNER! Steaks for everyone! And then Hubs said, “I can turn this $40 into $400,” which is how we came home with a deficit of $82.)
(I told Hubs that he was going to Slot Machine Rehab. The genuine sign of an addict is the quote, “JUST ONE MORE QUARTER AND ONE MORE YANK! I KNOW THE NEXT ONE WILL PAY OFF!”)
(Never believe that.)
(Do you know how much money I spent in the slot machines that day? One American dollar. Because, as far as I’m concerned, I can put my money in a slot machine, or I can throw it into a trash can. They’re one and the same. And do you know what will LAST? A gray rug for your living room and some Chevron-striped pillows in navy and yellow. You can’t buy those things when you feed money to the one-armed bandit.)
(Also? While we’re talking about gray rugs and Chevron-striped pillows, you should know that I signed up for an account on Pinterest today, and when Pinterest tried to walk me through the introduction, I wanted to breathe into a paper bag and shout, “WHY IS THIS SO HARD?!” So far, I’m following some obscure boards that I had no interest in following, and now I have no idea how to UN-follow them. I also have zero-point-zero idea on how to pin things. Which, you know, pretty much defeats the entire purpose that Pinterest was created for. When it comes to me and the computer, I might as well be Abraham Lincoln’s mother, yanked out of her log home and placed in front of a modern-day Apple. She’d be all, “Abe, honey? Where do I light the candle on this thing to make it glow?” That’s me.)
And now that you know about my gambling history, which is basically non-existent, and the fact that I am a pinning failure already, on my first day, I’ll tell you about our uneventful weekend.
The boys played together. A lot.
As a mother of an only child for eleven-and-a-half years, we have had SCADS of little boys in and out of this house. I could never give the boy siblings, but I could let his friends come here and feel welcome in our home. We have had hundreds and hundreds of play dates here, with boys hanging out all over the place. And now… MY OWN TWO BOYS have been busy playing together. I could literally sit on the sofa and soak it all in forever, without moving or breathing; watching them together never, ever gets old. The boy and Thing 2 are the very best of friends.
Thing 2 has exactly four songs that he BIG, PUFFY, RED HEART LOVES to hear on You Tube. Four songs. No less; no more. He could listen to those four songs over and over and over, until the cows came home and finished dinner and showered and tucked themselves into their little cow stalls for the night. And if anyone tries to deviate from one of the Golden Four, Thing 2 wails and voices his displeasure and gives up on all the watching. On Friday, the boy played Thing 2’s Favorite Four playlist on his tablet a thousand times in a row, and Thing 2 was a devoted watcher.
Thing 2’s other favorite thing is the dishwasher. When the boy was a tiny guy, he was obsessed with vacuum cleaners. He wanted to know how they worked; he pushed ours around for hours and hours and hours. Thing 2 hates the vacuum cleaner, but his heart lies with the dishwasher. Whenever he hears it open, he crawls faster than Superman can fly, and BINGO! He’s the very first person to volunteer to help with clean up!
Well, guess who turned ten entire months old on Saturday?
Yep. It was Thing 2. He’s ten months old… he crawls faster than I can blink… he opens every cabinet, every cupboard, and every drawer… he empties every cabinet, every cupboard, and every drawer… he walks along the furniture… he pulls himself up on everything… he eats like a seventeen-year-old body builder… he sleeps all night (Thank you, Jesus!)… and he weighs what the boy weighed at 17 months of age. Thing 2 is a solid tank.
Thing 2 also learned to whistle this weekend. He puckers his little lips into an adorable whistling position, and he blows air out in a squeak. It’s hysterical and precious, and he FLAT-OUT REFUSES to do it for the video camera.
On Saturday night, Hubs and the boy had Man Night. They went to see The Hobbit, and then they stopped for tacos afterwards. They did tell me that I could accompany them on Man Night, if I could refrain from making sarcastic comments during the movie. There’s not a tub of extra-buttered popcorn in this entire universe that’s big enough to keep me quiet when it comes to little trolls and little round doors in the grass and I HAVE THE RING! I HAVE THE RING! The science fiction and fantasy genres and I have never been good friends.
Wisely, I chose to stay at home with Thing 2.
He asked if he could PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE help with the dishes, since it was his ten-month birthday and all.
How could I resist?
And then, if you look very carefully at Thing 2’s little nose, you can see what happens when you catch the cat unaware and yank her tail. (There’s a bloody scratch on his nostril.) When you do this, the cat will slap you on instinct. She was sorry; she was ashamed that she’d slapped the baby. And that baby screamed profanities at her for five solid minutes.
Aren’t the boys adorable?
Oh, wait. I guess there WAS help with the dinner dishes tonight, too. Thing 2 is QUITE HELPFUL when it comes to those dishes.
(When he’s 36 and I grant him permission to leave his mama behind and get married.)
(I’m sure Hubs can turn $40 into $4,000 on the slot machines to pay for the wedding, too.)
(And did you count the bare toes up there? ELEVEN. Jesus blessed Thing 2’s feet more than He blessed yours and mine.)
Tomorrow morning, we face reality. I will have to make a ham sandwich and shove it into a lunchbox with a yogurt and some fruit. It’s my turn to captain the carpool wagon, too, which spells EARLY SHOWER. Although I have pretty much lived in my pajamas this entire Christmas break at home, I still draw the line at leaving the house in them. I don’t want to end up as a Walmartian on the great internet. I’ll wear real clothes when I drive the carpool.
And then I’ve got to do something about our floor situation over here, because I’m pretty sure the castle floors in medieval Scotland, which were nothing but dirt and rushes, were cleaner than our hardwoods are at the moment.
Reality is going to hit very hard tomorrow morning. It’s been a fantastic Christmas break.
Y’all have a good Sunday night, and don’t forget to set your alarms for BACK TO THE GRIND.