If it was like this every day I’d quit my day job.
Yesterday afternoon a mere forty minutes after my family pulled out of my driveway – just after forcing my brother to be my Meatball Bitch as he helped me whip up a crockpot full of sizzlin’ meaty love – I hit the road with Child #1 for a little Tacoma-area party of Hip Mamas. Up until 3 AM with my new alltime favorite Kelly, hitting the Winstons and red wine and taking turns settling children to bed. Up in the AM – morning bathtime (two kids, one tub – much love); walk; morning coffee; breakfast; goodbyes and a Cher CD (thank you, honey!) and then on the road.
An hour after I get home today and our normal Monday afternoon babysitter has cancelled (a 2 hours I was hoping to rest up therein), I am beat from the night previous’ 3 AM to 7:30 AM sleep stint. I call a girlfriend to invite myself over for a playdate and she says, “Oh, so-and-so’s coming and we’re having Bloody Marys!” Ahhhh… If I can’t have a nap this afternoon, that should do nicely.
I bring a little snackage but girls A and B are about the frostilicious cocktails. We bundle the four kids up and head out to the porch where we watch them frolic and climb all over one another and poke the dog in the eyeball (good sport, pooch!). The kids are playing / screaming / begging for our attention and we’re in wooden rockers sipping giant- and I mean massive – pickle jars of Bloody Mary and playing the Name-That-Tune, 80’s Version (Yes. Yes! We are that cheesy. You are just fucken jealous you weren’t there!). I humiliate myself with my first pick – a Kraftwerk song – and take it down to Top 40. Problem is with 80’s hits – the one line you remember usually has the title in the lyric.
A few minutes until my husband gets home. I thank the hostess (I’ve just been infringing on hospitality the last 24 hours!), pack the kids up, and head home with my tribute Cher CD on rather loudly. Inside, I run a bath and the kids and I partake of a little splashy loving fun for a few minutes until Daddy gets home.
Now that’s my kind of parenting day.
And now, a brief photo essay of the family’s visit this weekend:
My parents’ sweet ride. I grew up in one of these, you know. It was bigger, less shiny, and wanted by the cops occasionally when my parents would, oh, leave my brother and I in it to go play pool in the tavern. True story.
My parents’ new “dog”. I’m not going to say a word.
My brother, in one of a series of “Meat Slavery” episodes between us. Note belligerent expression. This is what I have to deal with. To be truthful, he did a great job with the cooking duty and didn’t even sample a meatball of his own. After I slapped him with that searing greasy spatula, anyway.
‘Sup?