The Worst Weekend Ever

My weekend was absolute pandemonium.

I wasn’t needed at work on Friday and because of this it was easy to justify a two-hour nap, which I sank into easily thanks to a wordy book and the warmth of my dog.

I spent the evening with my children while my husband fished. We made a quick stop at the grocery store after school, where I purchased five different kinds of ice cream and a bottle of wine. This is the part where things get interesting. In my dirty joggers and stained tee shirt, with my make-up free face and beanie pulled low on top of my chaotic hair, my credit card was conveniently “restricted.” After asking rather loudly as to what “restricted” meant (they thought someone had stolen it), and the not-yet-able-to-vote cashier giving me a full-on look of pity, I conceded and used a different card. Not a single person in the store would look me in the eye after I said, “Great, now my husband knows I bought wine and all of this ice cream.”

After dinner, popcorn and movie commenced, only to be gratefully interrupted by my beautiful parents, who confirmed they love my husband more than me by bringing him Chicken Adobo from a local restaurant. Only he wasn’t home. He never saw the Chicken Adobo. I told him about it, though and how good it tasted. I avoided the beans, certain they would poison me.

Later a solid parenting move was made by allowing both children to watch Catching Fire and stay up until 9:30, a full two hours past their bedtimes. Note to parents of six-year-olds: That movie is highly inappropriate for children that age. They will cry and forever be terrified of orangutans, and rightfully so. You will have to snuggle them to sleep. Maybe it was worth it.

With both kids finally asleep, I sat down with wine and watched Reality Bites. I miss grunge. The original grunge. Not this cropped-top, platform-sandaled, mom-jean reincarnation of grunge. The real grunge back when Kurt and TuPac were still breathing. I went to bed way too late and ended up sharing my bed and my pillow with snoring six-year-old.

Saturday was filled with perfecting the art of peace negotiations. Tired children tend to fight over free air and other unimportant life details.

Went to a taco party where I saw my husband for the first time since Thursday night. Nine-year-old binge-ate olives and brownies. This did a number on his digestive system which led to a clogged and overflowing toilet at our house. Also, screaming. There was lots of screaming. We have one bathroom, and when it is flooded with poo water, I end up peeing my pants a little. All extra money will now be saved for installation of second bathroom. Daughter cried into a popcorn bowl, claiming she was going to vomit. Also, poo water seeped into the basement and rained down onto dirty and clean clothes. Son summed up my life by saying, “I just want to go to sleep so this day is over.”

Sunday brought rain clouds and an easy lunch with friends. After which, I picked up my daughter and went on our first ever smooth shopping trip. She asked for every shoe but threw no fits when I sternly said no. I let her change into the new clothes in the car before we even left the parking lot.

Spent the afternoon talking to friends in a cozy living room with strong coffee and cookie cake. There was a lot of talk about moving. I have mixed emotions, as I love them dearly and the thought of yet another family leaving North County makes my stomach hurt, but their intentions are pristine and golden, which makes letting them go much easier. In other words, I have no intentions of sabotaging the sale of their house as I have plotted for other friends in the past.

Sunday night I dreamt we held a PTA meeting in my bedroom. As a result, I will spend my day cleaning it just in case. This morning, I broke an egg yolk, which made my breakfast almost inedible. I powered through thanks to copious amounts of hot sauce.

The weekend went by in a crazy haze of drama. I couldn’t be happier that it is over, but I picked up on sweet hints of grace throughout those days: Parents who belly laugh with my children. Kids who love me enough to smile as they eat the popcorn I burned. A warm home in a city my heart holds hope for. Chicken Adobo. Honest friends. Hot sauce. A husband who genuinely didn’t mind that I bought wine and ice cream. Naps. And an adoring God who loves me even when my bladder is weak.

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