Weekends are for sleeping in and maybe letting the kids watch a little of the boob tube so you stay in your holy t-shirt and equally religious underwear and climb back into bed to cuddle with your dog. Or husband. Or partner. Or whomever. Or whatever.
I lerve weekends.
Especially now that I'm a working girl.
Especially since I LOATH waking up my children on school days.
Especially since I'm inherently lazy and love lounging.
Especially, well you get my drift.
So last Sunday morning I got a chance to lounge and then lounge some more, and then maybe I lounged a little more. But no one saw me, so no one can hold it against me. I was able to lounge because my kids weren't here. They were, like, over there. Across the valley, and over the river and through woods, sleeping in rooms separate from our house. In rooms attached to Katy and John's house, separate from our house.
It was delightful. Paul Bunyan and me (yea, we) actually got to go on a date. Like, a real one. It included VERY good beer, and delicious chili, a complete conversation, live music, some dancing, and we also got to uncover some long lost eye contact and forgotten laughter. And since Paul Bunyan was at the mercy of me, I forced him to watch me inhale Nectar's famous gravy fries on our half hour drive home. I'm sure it was quite attractive.
And then if it wasn't for the dogs wanting breakfast. And if it wasn't for Mike's call at 8 telling Paul Bunyan that daylight was burning. And if it wasn't for the fact that they made a plan to go look at some "logs" that early in the morning, which made Paul Bunyan actually leave our "lying in" morning all to myself. And if it wasn't for the fact that little Ruthie called to see if Claire could play at 8. And if it wasn't for the cat who continues to use my toilet as his watering hole. And if it wasn't for my damn dog who loves to bark at the air...my lounge session would have been perfect. But then again, nothing ever is perfect in my critical mind.
Well, John and Katy got to have their night out this weekend. I know the swap wasn't fair. But shhh, they haven't said anything. We got their EXTREMELY easy and super worldly cute 15 month old. They got our high energy, sometimes violent, headstrong threesome. Supposedly, they don't mind.
Cally came, she conquered our hearts, ate us out of the house, and then left (with a new pink potty, new tricycle, the cutest little orange pea coat that Claire used to wear, and of course, a ski helmet).
I heard Cally at 5 a.m. on Saturday morning cry out. I realized that she probably would fall back asleep in the dark of the early dusk, but I pulled out the comforter and cuddled up on our guest bed right next to her (our old) Pack n' Play. She rolled and grumbled and farted but didn't really rouse until 6.
And then she said this:
And all the world seemed right. Because I don't care whose kid this is, if they sound like this you can bring them over to spend the night any night. And they can wake me on a Saturday at 6 a.m. whenever they want. I guess maybe it would get old after awhile. But jeez, I couldn't get enough. She's so flippin' cute. And I think, although he might not admit it, that it almost made Paul Bunyan consider reversing his vasectomy.