Is it too late to talk about Mother’s Day? Is there a threshold after which the topic becomes banal? I don’t know… so I’m going to tell you about my Mother’s Day weekend anyway. Plus, I want to hear about some of the Mother’s Day adventures of the moms in the M.O.M. Squad in the comments section.
The sequence of events that took place over the weekend came in rapid succession. I’m under the gun because Stone has a pissy pull-up on and Liya wants to go outside, so I’m just going to give you the highlights if that’s ok. Okay? Here we go!
This was supposed to be an exciting milestone – a triumph, in fact! – but it turned out to be a near tragedy. With just mere hours to go before my first book was supposed to go live online, I discovered to my shock, horror and dismay, that the back of the book had no information. How and why would people buy it if they didn’t know what it was about? When I was instructed to upload a “cover”, I had my graphic artist do just that: create a front cover. Come and see me scrambling at midnight to reformat the whole thing! I was exhausted. I had to get some sleep because the next day I had to go camping with the big girls.
We’re going camping? I’m coming too!
My period invited itself to my Mother’s Day weekend festivities. It sucked. I don’t like taking a dump in public, let alone bleeding out my behind in the presence of total strangers for 3 days and two nights. Oh and did my period show out. I spotted on my jeans – something I haven’t done since high school. When another mom (very discretely) pointed it out to me, Aya asked me what the stain was.
“Did you poo-poo on yourself, Mommy?”
“Yes. I did.”
I chose to tell my 6 year old that I crapped my pants just so I could avoid a conversation about the onset of menses.
Pat that weave, baby!
By hour five into our camping trip, I had begun to question the wisdom of such an endeavor. I called lights out at 11 pm. I had already had enough of the screaming, screeching, squealing and scampering that accompanies a pack of first and second graders. As silence descended upon the bunk house (we had avoided sleeping in tents, that Heaven) I heard a vaguely familiar sound. It was a thunderous, methodical thumping.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump!!!!
As the night wore on, it became more and more persistent. Sweet baby Jesus in the sky. I wish I had a rat tail comb to give this woman so she could scratch her scalp! Or better yet, why didn’t she just get her weave washed before she came on this trip. Ugh! Finally, at 3 am, I fell into a fitful sleep…
It’s time for activities, Mommy!
Tie-dye. Leather work. A 45 minute hike. Canoeing. Basket making. Kitchen cosmetics. Swimming. All these things and STILL my girls were not satisfied.
“I wish we had done archery and the big swing,” Nadjah moped.
I wish you would just shut your face!
“When were we going to have time to do all that, Na?” I asked, rubbing my neck in frustration. “There was literally not enough time to do everything on the activity sheet.”
“But I – “
“No. No, Nadjah. No!”
I shoveled camp-issued mac n’ cheese in my face and chewed ferociously. I was tired, and bleeding, and when we got back to the bunk house that night, that one mom was posted up in her bed, thumping on her skull like a Roman soldier nailing a thief to a cross.
Can we go out to eat for Mother’s Day?
I vetoed that idea immediately. You know how my kids are. I’ve told you about them. They are those children…the ones who can’t sit still long enough to take a bite of their food before their plate magically hits the floor. You hate dining out with those kids, and so do I.
But my husband wanted to dine out this week, so we did. I gave him my conditions before we entered the restaurant.
“Babe. I literally “can’t” with these children this week. If you want to eat out, then you have to let me sit in this car by myself for 10 minutes just to get my mind right.”
He said okay and took our tribe into Sweet Tomatoes alone. Poor man. Poor, foolish man.
Eight minutes later, he was calling me from inside the establishment.
“Are you ever coming in??”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
I took a deep breath. The landscapers had planted gardenias and roses in bushes nearby, and I was inhaling the excellent scent of the mingled fragrances.
What was wrong indeed! Sweet Tomatoes, for those who don’t know, is a farm to table-ish buffet. They have soup, salad, light pastries and fruit. It’s a healthier (and better tasting) alternative to Golden Corral. So there stood Marshall in line, trying to balance four trays and four kids, each with their own demands and food preferences. In the midst of his trying to scoop food onto their plates, Liya hit her face on the tiled counter and began to howl with abandon. At that moment, Stone took it upon himself to run out of the restaurant and plant himself in the middle of the STREET. A nice white guy in Sperry’s went outside to retrieve him for my husband. Several women offered to help my husband. He declined their assistance. The cashier offered him a belt.
As he recounted his harrowing tale, I couldn’t help but give into a fit of satisfied laughter. I told him! I told him they were crazy! I spend all day with these inmates. I know their limitations and I know mine.
And then we had an anniversary…
This week Marshall and I celebrated 8 years of wedded bliss, or something close to it. To commemorate the event, we climbed Kennesaw Mountain. I will not expend the time needed to describe the comical scene of two people whose combined weight equals that of a small marine mammal as they attempt to scramble over sheer rocks and dodgy trails. That being said, we were pleased that we actually made it to the top and could add that to our list of feats accomplished as a couple.
I attempted to make this achievement analogous to our marriage, but I was distracted by the sight of a younger (fitter) couple running past us. The guy was muscular and had the posture of someone living in a state of prosperity. The girl was a brunette, with a flat stomach and was clad little Lycra shorts that sat perfectly on her taut bottom. Whore.
“Look at those spring chickens,” Marshall said with a snort.
“That’s okay, babe. We’ve had our time. We are winter turkeys!”
And now this winter turkey has to take her turkeylettes(?) outside to play.
Happy Friday one and all!
Oh, Oh, Oh! Random thought for this random blog. Let’s play a game! What are you doing while reading this post? Tell us right here: ↓