Because I know you’ve been waiting all day today, just so you can find out what on earth we did over the weekend.
I hate to disappoint y’all, but our weekend simply wasn’t as glamorous as William and Kate’s weekend probably was. It’s because they were at Buckingham Palace this weekend, while we were at our Regular People House.
(We do like to keep a low profile and stay out of the paparazzi’s way. Plus, I dropped off my tiara earlier this week at the jewelry store, so that it could be shined up and buffed, and I hate to be photographed without it.)
Our weekend started on Friday, as weekends are prone to do, and SOMEONE turned thirteen entire months old.
Yes, his shirt IS wet. It’s because Thing 2 can climb a set of stairs at the park and rocket himself down the slide faster than anyone can blink, and sometimes there are PUDDLES OF WATER in the slide, because… well… RAIN. And when Thing 2 moves like Flash Gordon himself, it’s often difficult to survey the entire playground and notice PUDDLE OF WATER! PUDDLE OF WATER ON THE SLIDE! before he’s already slid completely through it.
It’s hard to believe that our little man is not only ONE ALREADY, but he’s ONE PLUS A MONTH. It seems like just yesterday that we watched his birth and brought him home and snuggled his tiny, little, baby-powder-smelling body and then spent five entire months not sleeping at all.
And I have to throw this shot in, because LOOK AT THE CURLS! Thing 2’s hair is finally starting to grow, and there are CURLS IN THE BACK!
Oh, yes. As is his usual custom, Thing 2 spent his Friday morning digging in some kitchen cupboards, even though his mama rips her hair out in big chunks by the roots and asks him to please stay plum, dadgum out of the cabinets. He tried a new cupboard out on Friday, and lo! There was his daddy’s old espresso machine, which was retired to the back of a bottom cabinet when the blessed Keurig came to live at our house.
(Yes. The espresso machine needs to go in a garage sale, but listen. I don’t go to garage sales, and I certainly don’t host garage sales. It’s because the thought of hauling all of my junk out to my driveway, and finding tables to put it all on, and then wondering if a discarded espresso machine should be marked as $1 or $52 makes my head want to explode.)
(Plus? Well, I am most certainly NOT a haggler over prices, and I know I couldn’t argue with those die-hard, thrifty, professional garage sale goers. Gladys would look at me and say, “$52 for an espresso machine? That’s robbery. Will you take $4?” And I would be all, “Well, we paid four thousand dollars for that machine, and we only used it for a week or so. I think we’ll stick to $52. But I’ll take $50.” And Gladys would say, “I’ll give you five entire dollars! The machine isn’t worth fifty!” And then I’d start to cry, because that’s my coping mechanism in stressful situations, and Gladys would probably end up stealing the machine out of my driveway when I was dabbing at my eyes with Kleenex.)
(I don’t need that kind of stress in my life, which is why we simply stockpile things that normal people put into garage sales.)
(And, on that note, does anyone need an espresso machine? Slightly used?)
Thing 2 found the fancy coffee maker on Friday morning, and he manhandled it right out of the cabinet. This might have been a difficult thing for most 13-month-old babies to do, but our pediatrician did tell us at his one-year-old checkup that Thing 2 has the strength and reflexes of a two-year-old.
I’m not making that up. She said this after he picked up a chair meant for toddlers in the doctor’s office and carried it across the exam room, over his head.
When the espresso machine was successfully extracted from the cupboard, Thing 2 discovered the little cup that went with it. It’s metal. It’s tiny. (Because who wants espresso in a LARGE cup? Can you say DEATH BY COFFEE?) It has a handle. And Thing 2 loved it. He packed it around all Friday morning, pretending to drink out of it.
And then, after he’d had that cup out for over an hour and had countless pots of imaginary coffee, I noticed that things were excessively quiet in the kitchen, where I was cleaning up.
Quiet in a home is good, unless you have a toddler. Then Quiet can be very suspicious. In fact, with a toddler around, Quiet is the sound that precedes all dangerous activities.
I went in search of Thing 2, and I found him. He was in our bathroom. And he was sopping wet…
…because he had been dunking his little espresso cup into our toilet and drinking the water!!
I pretty much screamed when I witnessed it. Thing 2 looked at me and said, “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!” And then he took another sip of coffee and smacked his lips together in pleasure.
I shudder just retelling this story, but the honest truth is that Thing 2 is still alive. He drank CLEAN toilet water, and he survived. And he apparently thought it was delicious. He was incredibly proud of his resourcefulness.
After our morning coffee time was over, Thing 2 and I loaded up into the Suburban and met my friend Lisa and her little boy, and Sister and little Cousin H at the park. Thing 2 discovered the slides there. He is a very accomplished slider, and he will mow bigger children down, as he crawls over the top of them on the stairs, just to be the first one down.
He gets those manners from his daddy.
On Saturday, the boy abandoned us, because he and his buddy Kellen went to a science class where they got to extract DNA from strawberries. The boy thought that this was twenty-seven kinds of wonderful, and he now carries the DNA of a strawberry around in a little vial.
If I was smarter, I could use it to genetically engineer some strawberries that were the size of watermelons. As it is, I can’t distinguish the DNA from the strawberry water, because I always preferred nouns and semicolons and essays over DNA, meiosis and mitosis.
Oh, science? Why do you hate me so?
Hubs and I ended up taking Thing 2 back to the park on Saturday, where Hubs marveled at his ability to climb over a four-year-old boy at the top of the slide, because said preschooler was too timid to go down. This boy’s mother looked at me and asked, “How did you get your little baby to go down the slide like that? My son is four, and we can’t get him to tackle a trip down a slide for anything. He just sits at the top and wastes everyone’s time.”
Obviously. Which is why Thing 2 chose to crawl over the top of him.
One hundred and four times.
He has the strength and reflexes of a two-year-old, remember. We’re also pretty sure he’s going to be the kid who shouts out, “I want to ride bulls in the rodeo! I want to skydive! I want to drive a NASCAR! I want to ride a rocket, Ma!!!”
I have been saving my dollars to prepare for all the gray hairs my stylist is going to have to color on up for me.
Also? Well, Thing 2 wrinkles his nose up now. It’s hysterical. He does it whenever he’s happy and excited. He’ll probably need plastic surgery to remove the PERMANENT nose-wrinkle when he jumps on his first bull at the Bull Riders Only competition.
(Hubs and I both know he’d win that competition, too.)
(And then we’d have to find a spot to store a belt buckle the size of a garbage can lid.)
(We could put it in the cabinet with the espresso machine, I guess.)
Somehow, I ended up with TWO SONS who pick up every! single! stick! that they encounter. In fact, Hubs and I could designated an entire table at a garage sale to FREE STICKS THAT OUR BOYS HAVE BROUGHT HOME!
And then Hubs and the boy went on a little outing together, because Hubs decided that the boy was not only old enough to drink coffee… he was old enough to have a real gun.
The kind of real gun that shoots real bullets and causes real deadness. That’s what Hubs helped the boy buy this week.
I am definitely pro-gun. I don’t usually get on any political soap boxes on this blog, because if people start arguing at me too loudly, I just burst into tears, per my best coping mechanism in stressful situations. But… I do think that every boy has the right to have a gun… and to pop a turkey off for Thanksgiving dinner, if that’s what he chooses to do.
What every boy DOES NOT have the right to do is go joyriding in a car and shoot people out the window.
I am in favor of guns, as long as people use them wisely. I, myself, have no idea how to use one wisely, because what I know about guns can be summed up in this sentence: FILL THE WATER CHAMBER WITH TAP WATER, PUT THE PLUG BACK IN, AND HOPE THAT YOU CAN SQUIRT WATER FURTHER THAN YOUR ENEMY CAN.
And that’s the end of my political rant.
Hubs took the boy out shooting on Sunday afternoon. Thing 2 was napping, so I stayed at home. And, since anything that ever happens at our house must be documented with the Canon, I sent my camera with Hubs.
My camera, which is equal to my third arm… or my third child.
And do you know what? The boy and Hubs came back four hours later, and Hubs announced, “I didn’t even use your camera, but I took one picture with my phone.”
Honestly? I don’t even know how I manage to stay with that man.
So here it is: The LONE photo that I have of the boy and his new gun.
That, people, is my firstborn son. He is shooting his very first gun. (Unless you count his BB gun as his first gun, which the boy does not. Apparently the boy now considers BB guns to be synonymous with TOYS.)
I also heard tale that my child is a crack shot. Hubs’ grin almost split his face in two on Sunday evening, as he whispered, “Our kid can STINKING SHOOT, honey!”
I guess that makes two people at our house who can send you packing if you try to break in. Add to that the fact that Cat 1 would rather rip someone’s bowels out than tolerate them, and we have our very own, built-in security system in place.
And that, people, was our weekend.