During the pre-weekend (which is really more of a real weekend, as far as I’m concerned, because the pre-weekend is Thursday and Friday, and I do not teach PE on those days), we got some things done.
Actually, I should probably type it like this:
WE. GOT. SOME. THINGS. DONE!!
(And then I could throw out a little kick and stretch for an even greater emphasis, exactly like Sally O’Malley would have done it, because I’m all about the visual.)
Sister and I both have toddlers. Cousin H is three entire months older than Thing 2. She is sweet and ladylike and very feminine. She likes her baby dolls and a cup full of dish soap bubbles to cart around the house for hours on end, which she can do without spilling or eating a single drop. She entertains herself when she needs to. She uses her manners without being prompted.
Thing 2 is more like the Tasmanian Devil, spinning relentlessly in a self-made tornado cloud. If he was trying out for the Olympics right now, it would be in bull riding. Thing 2 gets into everything, dismantles everything, and can empty a toy box faster than Jeff Gordon can bank a corner at Talledega. He does not understand the English word phrase for PLEASE SIT STILL. Heck, he doesn’t even understand that phrase in German, Japanese, Pig Latin or Spanish.
So while Sister can knock out some chores at her house, I always feel like I’m falling behind in mine.
And by falling behind, I mean that there are streaks of pink that are flourishing right now in my shower.
And that, people, is why Sister invented the idea of a housecleaning co-op for mothers of toddlers. She came over to my house early Thursday morning, and we cleaned like there was going to be a test from Queen Elizabeth’s head maid. That afternoon, we went to Sister’s house and did the same thing, which is why I went to bed that night feeling like I had been the one trying out for Olympic bull riding.
Somewhere along the line, Sister decided that we should totally bless our friend, Bethany, with the same co-op treatment, because her husband had been hunting for ten days straight, and she was OVER being a single mother while the menfolk in her family slept in tents in the hills and tried their hand at being a ventriloquist with elk calls. On Friday, we showed up at Bethany’s house, where we did the wash, rinse and repeat method.
The co-op method of cleaning is exactly like a coffee date with the girls, except for the fact that your Starbucks to-go cups sit on the kitchen counter, while you manhandle the vacuum cleaner and break a belt off of Bethany’s. The children play. They all group together to play DEFENSE to Thing 2’s OFFENSE, and everyone has a good time.
And so that was the pre-weekend, in case you’ve been holding your breath since Thursday night, wondering what I could have possibly been doing.
On Friday afternoon, I forced Thing 2 to sit in a chair and look at my camera, but it didn’t go like I had anticipated, because my toddler is in a full-on, photo rebellion.
You know… what with him JUMPING OUT OF HIS CRIB LIKE A HOT SHOT SMOKE JUMPER and all.
Some assembly was required, so Thing 2 helped out by ripping up the packing material. I think he was prepping it for recycling.
This is where we interrupted all the FUN and all the EVERYTHING IS GOING ALONG SWIMMINGLY, because listen.
The boy has a toad. I’ve actually grown quite fond of the toad (whose name is Toad, because we are very original at our house). Toad lives in a tank in the boy’s room, and he eats $1.26 worth of crickets twice a week. We secure the live crickets from a local shop in town. They come home in a clear plastic bag. The boy is then, with speed and no delay, supposed to walk those bugs into his bedroom and release them into the death chamber. Toad is fast, and he never misses.
On Friday night, he brought his clear plastic bag home.
Which he sat on the bathroom sink.
Right before he left to go to a Halloween party with Sister and her kids.
After Thing 2 had adequately shredded the packing material from his new bed to smithereens, he took it upon himself to accomplish one last job.
He ripped open a bag of crickets that he found.
And he released those bugs into the wild.
The wild was our house.
When I found the maimed bag on the floor, I was shocked. And then there was some pandemonium, because DO YOU KNOW WHAT MAMA DOESN’T WANT IN HER HOUSE?
Free-range crickets, that’s what.
Which is precisely why I found myself crawling around on my hands and knees Friday evening, capturing Jiminy and his friends with my bare hands, in three different rooms of our house.
Let the good times roll.
After Mama had breathed into a paper bag and recovered eight crickets with a ninth one accounted for, as she witnessed Cat 1 eat it, she gave up.
Which is when Thing 2 decided to show off what he could do with his new bed.
Late on Friday evening, we ended up going from THIS homemade set-up…
The Department of Family Services and ER doctors everywhere thanked us.
I mentioned that the boy left before the cricket whisperer released the bagged captives. He went to a Halloween party with Cousins L and K.
L dressed up as a rock star. She had no idea who I was talking about when I asked her if she could wail like Joan Jett.
Rock and roll is wasted on today’s youth.
After yanking the toddler down from another high place, we loaded ourselves up into the car and drove seventy miles to Small Ranching Community, so that we could watch the boy’s good buddy, Ben, play football, while we sat in the stands on a warm fall afternoon, visiting with his family.
We hollered things like, “Go, Number Fourteen!” and “Yay for One-Four!!”
I’m pretty sure that Ben wished his cheering section wasn’t so enthusiastic.
The twenty-seven-pound Tasmanian Devil was in fine form at the game. He refused to learn the English phrase of PLEASE SIT STILL, even though Ben’s younger brothers (ages 2 and 9 months) sat like baby angels.
We spent some time on the sidelines… and on the track surrounding the practice football field… expelling some energy.
Yes, ma’am! They had a perfect winning record.
This morning, there was church.
It closes tonight, y’all. I’ve had six entire months of driving the boy out to one of the golf courses in Small Town, USA, over and over AND OVER, and now we’re done. I have no idea how we’ll deal with not having golf clubs in the back of the Suburban, but I’m pretty sure our checkbook is going to thank us, when it sees a reduction in the amount of gas we use over the winter.
I guess this means that winter can officially start at our house.
And that, people, was our weekend. We enjoyed every part of it, except for the part where my clean house from Thursday now resembles a frat house on a Sunday morning, after a Rush Week party. I really need the housecleaning co-op team to make a reappearance on Monday morning.
I think we summon them with something similar to the Bat Signal.
Happy Sunday, y’all.