I’m pretty sure that I just pulled off a Mother’s Day that would make Hallmark weep with joy.
You know, if Hallmark actually made a greeting card that said, “Hey, Mom, I hope you get to spend your special day this year up to your elbows in poop. And also? I hope Dad sleeps in until 9:30. Love you.”
On Saturday, Thing 2 pooped early in the morning. This is not unheard of, because Thing 2 is a very distinguished pooper. I left both of my boys with my mom for a while on Saturday, because THINGS TO DO! THINGS TO DO! When I maturely made the choice to go back and get my boys, instead of booking a flight to a spa in Maui, Mam commented that Thing 2 had experienced a couple of disgusting diapers while I was away. Missing those was almost as good as my idea on a beach vacation.
On Saturday afternoon, Thing 2 was officially diagnosed with Diarrhea Of The Worst Kind, because I am a mother, which means I’m practically a doctor.
By Saturday night, we were in FULL DEHYDRATION MODE THROUGH A SOUND COLON CLEANSE. Thing 2 pooped every thirty minutes, all night long.
All. Night. Long.
Eventually his little bum turned to raw hamburger, what with all the wiping and the smearing of the diaper rash cream. He started screaming every time I laid him on the changing table, because he knew what was coming. And I TRIED to be gentle, but when you’ve had forty-two diaper blowouts in one night, your bottom has a hard time maintaining good skin.
I think it goes without saying that Thing 2 and I did not sleep on Saturday night.
And then we were up at 6 AM, with more poop, and because it was daylight.
It was also Mother’s Day.
Hubs and the boy celebrated by sleeping in until 9:30.
I still love them.
Our weekend really WAS fantastic, even though there was poop. Because, regardless of all the diarrhea, Thing 2 wasn’t slowed down a bit. He still laughed and ran and jumped and climbed and was asked, “Are you being careful?” one hundred thousand times.
(The answer to that question is always no. Thing 2 lacks the chemical in the brain that says, “Whoa, Nelly! THIS might be dangerous, so we’d better reign it in a bit.” Thing 2’s brain says, “Look! A cliff! Let’s jump!”)
Do y’all remember clear back to Thursday? The boy had a band concert, which meant that I had a band concert, too, because I voluntarily signed the waiver that said, “Yes. I will let my son teach me to play the clarinet, and I will be more than happy to come forward to the stage on concert night, have the lighting technician shine the spotlight on me until I break out into a menopause-like sweat, and I will play for an audience of 43,000 parents.”
For the record, I rocked “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” I OWNED “Hot Cross Buns.” I knew that job offers were coming for professional bands, because we’d heard it said that scouts were in the audience. I was all set to do “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” and yes! I COULD play that one flawlessly.
Only on Thursday night, I started with one finger closing one of the holes in the clarinet, instead of three fingers closing three holes. That was the EXACT WRONG note to begin on, and then it all spiraled downhill quickly, because WHERE WAS I? How do I do this? What just happened? And all of those questions led up to me squeaking the clarinet like a horn on a child’s bicycle three entire times.
But really? It was nothing that a box of wine couldn’t take care of.
(There are no pictures of me playing the clarinet, because Hubs was wrestling Thing 2 and I couldn’t snap my own picture while I was busy cursing in my head about starting my last song wrong. However, I did look up and see Enzo’s dad taking a video of my performance on his iPhone. He may have told me later, “Oh! I’ll be sending this little video document out to some people.” I’m sorry if you were one of those who had the misfortune of receiving that horrible noise called Mama On The Clarinet.)
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The boy also had a solo part on Thursday night, which he played flawlessly. It’s because he knows when to start a musical piece with one hole covered and when to start with three holes covered.
Enzo also played a solo, which he rocked. I guess there’s something to be said about being in band class for one hour every day at school to learn your songs, as opposed to thinking, “How hard can it be to learn a couple of nursery rhymes on this thing? I’ll wait until three days before the concert to practice.”
It’s why I’m not in a band.
Well, that and because NO MUSICAL TALENT WHATSOEVER.
(I didn’t take any pictures of Kellen on stage, because Kellen plays the baritone, which is roughly the size of a Volkswagen Bug. This means he sits in the back. I would have had to stand up in my chair and holler his name so that he’d look in my direction, if I wanted to snap his photo on stage.)
(After squeaking the clarinet in front of 43,000 people, I decided that I didn’t need to draw any more attention to myself.)
And then here’s my favorite shot of the night. It’s not crystal clear. It’s a bit blurry. It’s because Murphy’s Law states that ALL of my favorite pictures will be blurry pictures.
The boy proclaimed that he had golfed the best game of his life that night. He couldn’t stop talking about the fact that he teed off at one hole and his ball LANDED ON THE GREEN! He was so excited, it might just as well have been Christmas morning.
Way to go, Boy.
On Saturday morning, our church hosted a Mother / Daughter Tea. The gals who put it on solicited me to come and take pictures of the event, because professional photographers cost money, and sub-par photographers usually charge zero American dollars to do what they do.
Missi joined me at the church, as the back-up better photographer.
Our jobs were to seat the mothers and the daughters in the comfy chairs and take their pictures together. We said things like, “What’s your shutter speed?” and “Are you using the manual mode?” and “Did you shut your flash off?” and “What aperture setting are you on?” This way, all of the tea-goers thought they were in the presence of Photography Greatness as they overheard our conversations.
Little did they know that it was the blind leading the blind, and that I was the one hoping for a seeing-eye dog who would say, “Bring your shutter speed down a bit.”
I did remember to tell people things like, “Okay, turn your head on more of a slant. Now, make a fist. Slowly ease it up under your chin. Now, just imagine you’re weightless, in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by tiny little seahorses,” and “That was the one! I think that picture’s gonna come out really nice.” And then, “For a limited time only, Glamor Shots By Deb are 75% off.”
(Napoleon Dynamite quotes never go out of style.)
Here’s my darling friend, Abbey, and her girls. They couldn’t take a bad picture if they tried. They made my limited camera knowledge look good. I know that Abbey was imagining herself in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by seahorses here.
(Professional photographers everywhere will be pinning this snapshot and saying, “New positioning ideas for little girls in photo shoots.”)
(You’re welcome, professional photographers, for the grand ideas.)
Sister and Cousin L came out to the tea on Saturday morning, too. Aren’t they adorable, even though Sister opted out of slanting her head a little bit more and sliding her fist underneath her chin?
THIS is what I miss about not having had little girls!
That is my friend Katie and her three beauties. They dressed to the nines. They wore feathers and sparkles and gloves and heels and satin and lace and mink, and they carried themselves like the royal family they are.
When you just have boys at home, you don’t get to dress like this for fancy morning tea times. You may get invited to a Pirate Party, where you’re asked to wear your dirtiest pair of ripped-off-at-the-knees jeans, and to PLEASE DON’T BRUSH YOUR TEETH FOR THREE WEEKS PRIOR TO THE EVENT, IN ANTICIPATION OF IT.
I’ve always thought that if you have a tiara, it’s just best to go on ahead and wear it.
Like every day.
On Saturday afternoon, the boy and his cousin, B, went golfing again. It’s because the boy lives for golfing and food. B lives for hockey and food, but he’ll play golf when the ice melts.
I still had the camera in my Suburban after the tea, so OF COURSE I pulled it out and snapped pictures while the boys were at the driving range.
They’ve actually been hanging out together for a while now… what with them being cousins and all!
Cousins H and K were over there, too… AND I STILL HAD THE CAMERA WITH ME! I’m pretty sure that the shot of Cousin K, all by himself, is one of my all-time favorite photos of him. I could just pinch him in all his cuteness.
And Cousin H? She takes my breath away with her sweet perfection and adorable personality.
When there was poop.
We went into Mother’s Day with poop, and we finished Mother’s Day with poop.
And that, people, was our weekend. It was simple. It was full of every-day-moments. It was full of family and cousins and friends. And bad clarinet playing.
In the end, those kind of days — the every day days — will be those that we look back on and cherish the most.
Y’all have a happy Monday night.