If you want to know how our weekend went, let me tell you about this morning.
This morning, Thing 2 got out of bed at 5:30. This isn’t abnormal at all, because Thing 2 embraces the early morning hours. He’s up, he wants coffee, and he’s ready to do a soldier’s workout regimen. I vaguely remember being somewhat surprised that he was up at 5:30 this morning, because BUSY WEEKEND.
And saying BUSY WEEKEND doesn’t even touch it.
I told Thing 2, “Get the iPad, and go lay on your bed. You can watch a movie.”
What I was hoping for was fifteen extra minutes of lying in bed, while I gave myself a pep talk about YOU CAN DO THIS! IT’S MONDAY, AND IT’S BEEN A BUSY WEEKEND, BUT YOU’VE GOT THIS, GIRLFRIEND! THERE’S COFFEE IN THE KITCHEN!
I was pep-talking myself like crazy, encouraging myself to get up and wash my face, and get myself and my mug to the Keurig.
And that was the last thought I had until 7:15 this morning…
… WHEN I WOKE BACK UP.
People! I went back to sleep for almost two entire hours, while Thing 2 was AWAKE. This is like saying, “I invited a fraternity of curious, young raccoons into my house, and then I left them home alone, while I went shopping.”
Also? Well… I don’t normally GO back to sleep. I have this disease called ONCE I’M AWAKE, I’M AWAKE.
(And I wonder where Thing 2 gets it.)
In other words, the weekend WORE ME PLUM OUT.
I jumped out of bed at 7:15 this morning and threw open the door to Thing 2’s bedroom. He was still in there. He had 73,000 miles of train track laid out on his bedroom floor. The westward expansion of the railroad had nothing on what he had built this morning. Every toy car and train engine he owned was on the bedroom floor, waiting for their turn to roll down miles and miles of train tracks. The iPad was still running a movie on his bed. He looked at me — looked at me standing there in my pajamas, with my disheveled hair and my blinking, panicked eyes — and he said, “Good morning, Mom! I’m just playing with toys while you sleep.”
Apparently, he was playing with every toy he owns, based on the state of his bedroom, but we survived almost two hours of Thing 2 being unattended. I’m chalking THAT up as a major parenting victory.
Our weekend was fun, people. It was fun and lovely, and filled with every manner of friends and good times, but we were exhausted when we got back home. I went to bed at 7:45 last night, exactly like I was a 91 year old farm wife who needed to milk the cows at 3 AM.
There will be pictures of our weekend activities later this week, but tonight I’ll just show you this:
And when I say that I helped pack the boy up, what I mean is I PACKED HIM. People, I packed the boy’s suitcase for camp. I did it. Do you know why? Because the boy enjoys Ralph Lauren polo shirts and golf slacks now, and he would have packed those things for himself, for a week of camping in the dirt and the bugs and the mud and the weeds and the fish guts and the campfire smoke. I know that I have spent years wishing for such a time, because when the boy was younger, he refused to even SHOWER at camp. I think he wore the same pair of shorts and the same T-shirt all week long, regardless of all the encouragement to SHOWER ALREADY! FOR THE LOVE!! PLEASE TAKE A SHOWER!! from his college-aged counselors.
But now? Well, being fifteen has its perks.
Mainly, the boy showers on a regular basis these days, without being told. He SHOWERS… sometimes two times a day, even. He uses deodorant. He cares what his hair looks like. He cares if his clothes match. He uses cologne.
And he enjoys dressing like he has an afternoon meeting in Manhattan, before he boards a private jet, bound for a weekend on Nantucket.
So… I packed a big stack of gym shorts and another taller stack of ratty T-shirts for his camp adventures this week. I packed him boxers and old socks, so that I can just throw them in the trash this coming weekend, when they return back home, looking like brown death from all the miles of dirt they were forced to hike through.
In other words, I pretty much forced the boy into looking like a ratty commoner this week. Jesus will understand. Jesus just cares that the boy shows up at church camp this week.
Of course, I made the pack of Small Town, USA kids stand together for a picture, because group shots make me incredibly happy.
(See those jeans the boy is wearing? They are one of three pairs of jeans that he owns that currently FIT HIM, because he’s still growing. [SWEET MERCY!! Do boys ever GROW!!] They’re his dressy jeans. They cost more than dinner at a fancy restaurant. I pretty much told him that he’ll be grounded until he’s twenty-seven years old, if those jeans come home with holes in them.)
(I don’t think I scared him at all with that threat.)
Even if those jeans come home ripped and stained and burned from campfire ashes, it’ll be worth it, if he draws a little closer to Jesus this week at camp.
Y’all have a merry Monday.