Small Town’s weather, it seems, has decided to give Antarctica a run for her money, because THIS happened over the weekend:
No, your eyes are not deceiving you. We hit twenty-seven degrees ON THE WRONG SIDE OF ZERO, and that was just the straight-up temperature. Let’s not even talk about what happened when the breeze blew and REALLY chilled things off, because then I just need a fur-lined parka and a cup of coffee, while I sit in my closet with the electric blanket plugged in and bawl about not having the foresight to buy a home in Costa Rica.
Eventually, though, the weekend warmed up. I have photographic proof that it did:
So it should come as no surprise to you that the Jedi Family simply hunkered down indoors this weekend. We were unshowered. We wore our pajamas under sweatshirts. We had pizza and leftover pizza. Hubs and the boy made jambalaya. We watched an entire marathon of HGTV, during which the boys in my house even practiced restraint and didn’t participate in their traditional pastime of MOCKING ALL THE DECORATING SHOWS. There was also football and hockey on the TV. There were old episodes of Friends and Everybody Loves Raymond. Our television ran more this weekend than it has in the last eight months combined.
The boy DID run with a backpack out our backdoor to the neighbors’ house on Friday night. Our cute neighbor boy was having a party and sleepover for his birthday. We packed the boy’s bag with everything he’d need (We used the space in the backpack for gaming equipment, instead of clothes, because every mother of a teenage boy knows he’s going to sleep in the same outfit he came in and go back home in it.), and I opened the doors to our deck for him.
“Run, Boy! RUN! Don’t stop between here and there, or your lungs will freeze shut, and Mama won’t be able to get outside to pick you up until Spring hits!”
And then he reversed the direction of his run about 3:00 on Saturday afternoon, and he came back home to us. We welcomed him in exactly like you’d welcome someone into a tent with a fire after he had been stranded on Mt. Everest and was rescued by a Sherpa. We put him by the fire and offered him warm beverages until his eyelashes and nose hairs had thawed out.
And THAT was pretty much our weekend. I wanted to paint a piece of furniture on Saturday, but the paint was at Home Depot, and that was down the hill from us. I couldn’t risk exposure to the elements and hypothermia to go get it. Paint isn’t worthy dying of frostbite over. We didn’t even get out to church today.
But, people, THIS happened:
That would be a poorly-taken iPhone picture in a dark closet, because THOSE are my laundry baskets. And they are empty. That would be because… sweet mercy!!… all of our laundry is done.
It is finished.
I simply stared at those empty laundry baskets, and then I texted a picture of them to Sister and Mam, and said, “I really DO mean to brag here.” I think even Jesus gave His holy approval for a “MY LAUNDRY IS COMPLETELY DONE, AND THAT INCLUDES THE BEDSHEETS” sort of brag.
I think it was 1996 when our laundry hampers last looked like that.
The boy and I also finished going through his walk-in closet today. The moral of this story is: Don’t let a boy have a bedroom with a walk-in closet. Boys will revel in ALL THE SPACE of a walk-in closet, and they will PACK. THAT. SUCKER. FULL. It doesn’t matter that they’re in junior high now; they will STILL hoard rocks and sticks and instructions to Lego sets that are only partially there. There will be war maces made out of cardboard and silver spray paint. There will be giant, medieval swords made out of cardboard and spray paint. There will be long daggers with vicious looking, serrated edges made out of cardboard and spray paint. There will be Civil War cannons made out of cardboard and spray paint. There will be balls of string, half-used rolls of duct tape in a rainbow of colors, seventeen tools out of their dad’s garage, fourteen DEADER THAN A DOORNAIL double-A batteries, wrappers to six granola bars and two sticks of string cheese, and the calculator that YOU, yourself, have been looking for over the course of the last six weeks.
But the closet? Well, it looks really good now… In fact, people will probably be pinning pictures of the boy’s closet on Pinterest this week, and typing beneath the photos, “HOW I WANT TO ORGANIZE MY SON’S CLOSET, BECAUSE LOOK! THIS KID HAS NO CARDBOARD WEAPONS FROM THE CRUSADES STACKED ANYWHERE LIKE MY SON DOES.”
Oh… if they only knew.
We hid the weaponry in a big drawer.
There was a bit of a pizza-sauce face that ran around our house most of the weekend, too. Cheese pizza is Thing 2’s most favorite meal of EVER.
And the answer is YES. Thing 2 really DOES have a pink binky. It came in a package of other binkies, and he had heart palpitations when we talked about throwing it out. He likes to use it… and he takes it out a dozen times during the day and hollers, “Gink! Gink!” Any mama of a toddler can translate that dialect, because he’s telling us, “Pink! Pink!” Our baby is really making progress in nailing his colors.
Plus? Well, he’s tough enough to have a pink binky, let me tell you.
And the other answer is YES. Yes, Thing 2 is shirtless when we were sitting at twenty-two degrees below zero, while his big brother is bundled up in the same sweatshirt he had been wearing since Thursday. Thing 2 learned how to get water out of a sippy cup, while the childproof lid was securely attached, and he soaked himself. Childproof doesn’t always mean THING 2 PROOF. We stripped his shirt off to make a quick change before he succumbed to hypothermia…
… and that baby tossed a fit that would have made Dennis Rodman proud when we tried to put a dry sweatshirt on him.
He didn’t WANT a shirt on. So… he ran around half-naked for a while, and he survived. That was due to the fact that our fireplace ran all weekend, and our house was toasty warm. We can hardly wait for the gas bill to come in.
And THAT, folks, was our weekend. But, I hear we’re supposed to be on the fat side of zero tomorrow, with hopes that the mercury in Small Town’s thermometers will actually reach FIVE ABOVE.
Can you even imagine THAT luxury? Everyone will be out on their decks then, barbecuing and waving at the neighbors who are mowing their lawns.
That’s right, Florida! We’re just out here, descendants of the tough men and women who were the real Wild West Winners, while y’all sip your umbrella drinks by your pools and remark, “Sweet mercy, it’s really cooling off this week; I hear tale it’s supposed to be 76 degrees by Tuesday!”
Stay indoors, Florida. We don’t want to send a seasoned Sherpa out in that temperature to rescue you.