I feel like summer is getting the best of me, because our days are just a blur of repetition, so I never have anything new and unusual to write about.
And yet? Does it stop me? No. Some people just don’t know when to cry done, abandon the blog, and spend four consecutive hours in front of HGTV.
Also? I’m not ready for summer to be over; not by a long shot. Oh, I’m ready for the HEAT to be done, because here’s a little known fact about girls when they cross the over-forty line. They get hot. All of the time. And it’s not a pleasant kind of hot, but more like an I’VE BEEN IN THE PIG BARN AT THE COUNTY FAIR FOR EIGHTEEN HOURS, AND I HAVE SWEAT IN PLACES NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT, AND THE SMELL OF ABUSED STALL STRAW IS NOW FOREVER STUCK IN MY NOSE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH kind of hot.
I’m just hot all the time, because estrogen is not a friend of mine any longer, and I live for things like air conditioning and sun tea over ice, heavy on the ice, thank you.
(It appears that I live for long, run-on sentences, too, and that perhaps I take advantage of the comma.)
But I also love having my big boy home, and it’s not just so he can entertain the baby while Mama sits on the deck alone and drinks this one glass of wine… just one, and not a drop more, I promise…
It’s because I genuinely love having the boy at home. He’s a great kid, and I enjoy being around him, even though the condition of his bedroom would seem to indicate that we’re the type of family who might have a car in primer-gray up on cinder blocks in the front yard.
(Don’t be ridiculous. If we’re going to strip the wheels off a station wagon and put her up on blocks, it’ll happen in the backyard.)
I’m also getting really tired of cooking dinners at night.
(Hubs is reading this and exclaiming, “Really? Because you’ve cooked… what? Two dinners in the last week?”)
(Thankfully, Hubs is the kind of man who pretends he’s happy with Frosted Flakes at 6 PM, because he loves me.)
(I have a wicked awful crush on him, too, because he’s adorable.)
(And he kisses pretty dang good, too.)
(But he loves Shark Week, which means we can’t really watch TV together in the evenings right now, because SHARKS FREAK ME OUT.)
(When I was sixteen, I was standing up to my knees in the ocean, and a chunk of floating seaweed slapped up against my calves. I screamed like a team of banshees who were losing in a college football game. I screamed and screamed, until I had no voice left to scream with. I jumped up and down, up and down, out of the water, over and over, and tried to remember DO YOU PUNCH A SHARK IN THE NOSE? or JUST LIE DOWN AND PLAY DEAD?)
(I was a spectacle.)
(I’m rather certain people nearby labeled me as A TOURIST.)
Last night, I made pasta for dinner. It’s my one elegant recipe, so I’ve actually exhausted it at the family dinner table lately. If there’s one thing I need after a hot day of feeling like I’ve been sitting on a gate in the pig barn at the county fair, it’s an elegant meal on the table. Sometimes, fresh basil is all it takes to say, “Yes. Maybe I AM the type of girl who plays tennis at the club and drinks seltzer water with cucumber slices in it.”
(Except for that part where I play tennis, because I was never very good with a racket.)
This pasta recipe calls for little cherry tomatoes and tiny yellow tomatoes and fresh basil. I use fresh Parmesan and olive oil and balsamic vinegar and fettuccine, and it’s classy, people; it’s downright classy.
Last night, while I was cutting the tomatoes in half and chopping up the basil, so that my entire kitchen smelled like it should have been on a vineyard in Italy, I dealt with Thing 2, who was having a nuclear meltdown of epic proportion. It wasn’t just the usual YOU KNOW? I’M KIND OF TIRED TONIGHT SO I MIGHT FUSS A TOUCH meltdown. Instead, it was the I’M GOING TO PUSH YOU TO YOUR LIMITS OF PARENTING kind of meltdown, where the child implies, I’M ABOUT TO DRIVE YOU BAT POOP CRAZY; LET’S SEE WHAT KIND OF TOUGH YOU’RE MADE OF. Thing 2 wanted me to hold him; he wanted down; he wanted me to hold him again; he wanted down again. He wanted a drink! A Gink! Gink! Gink! And so I gave him a gink of water and he threw his sippy cup across the kitchen, because I DIDN’T REALLY WANT A GINK, EVEN THOUGH I ASKED FOR A GINK FOURTEEN TIMES. And then he said, “Fine! I’ll sit in time-out, since you made me, but I’ll holler like my leg is caught in a steel bear trap!” I gave him pretzels; he wouldn’t eat them. He laid on the floor and bawled, and I just stepped over him and kept dicing my basil, breathing in through my mouth and out through my nose, and wondering if maybe I shouldn’t sign myself up for a yoga class.
And then I called everyone in to eat, because Enzo was here, and LOW! I had prepared Enzo, the son of a real, live chef, an elegant dinner that involved FRESH BASIL, PEOPLE, and I was not feeding him macaroni and cheese out of a box this time. Hubs grinned and said, “This fancy pasta is all for Enzo, isn’t it?” Hubs knows me. Hubs knows that I would have, perhaps, served Cap ‘N Crunch, had Enzo been at his own house.
And this, folks, is where the boy and Enzo looked at me and said, “So… we’re not really hungry. Because remember the money we took to the golf course this afternoon to buy buckets of balls to hit? Yeah. We spent that on hamburgers and fries at the clubhouse at 2:30, and we’re still stuffed.”
And then Thing 2 threw his tiny tomatoes onto the floor and had himself another time-out in his crib.
Hubs and I ate the fancy pasta alone, and Hubs was very thoughtful and told me that it was delicious.
Which was… you know… TRUE.
When Thing 2 was out of time-out, he began yelling, “Beans! Beans! Beans!” So I opened up a can of dark red kidney beans, rinsed them like a boss, and THAT, people, is what my baby ate for dinner. He literally ate half of the can, and then the glory of heaven descended upon our dining room, because Thing 2’s mood transformed into WONDERFUL. Thing 2 was happy and giggly and full of beans.
Hubs announced that we should have fed him beans hours earlier.
And so… although last night was different, because Thing 2 doesn’t usually get threatened with MAMA AND DADDY ARE GOING TO TRADE YOU TO THE GYPSIES FOR GLASS BEADS AND LITTLE VIALS OF SNAKE OIL, IF YOU DON’T QUIT WHINING RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND… the rest of our days are just a happy blur of summer.
There’s golf. There’s more golf. There is so much golf, the boy should be able to beat Tiger Woods by now. There’s laundry and dirty dishes and a yard that constantly needs mowed. There are nights spent on the deck with ice cream and the boys. There’s family and family dinners and barbecues with good friends. It has been a very comfortable, very wonderful summer, and I’m dreading the fact that we’re actually going to have to set an alarm in three weeks.
Because that’s all we have.
Three more weeks of summer. And then, with any luck, the temperature will cool off, and Mama can quit feeling like she needs to just lie down all the time in the deep freeze.
Y’all have a great Tuesday evening. I’m going to sit with Hubs for a bit and pretend that I understand a guy’s fascination with real, live sharks that can bite you in half. It’s the least I can do, seeing as how he sat with me the other night and pretended that he was actually interested in the show about remodeling a kitchen and LOOK! WHITE CABINETS ON TOP, AND BLACK CABINETS BELOW, AND THESE ARE REAL CONCRETE COUNTERTOPS, and WHOA!! NAVY CHEVRON RUG IN THE KITCHEN!!!
Marriage is all about pretending to love the other one’s TV choices, people.
And it really does help if you marry a great kisser.