This weekend was George’s first sleepover at his grandparents’ house. All three of the boys went to my parents’ place for Saturday night so that Michael and I could go to his office Christmas party.
The boys said they had a good time, and my parents said they were no trouble at all. Bully for you, parents. Apparently they stored it all up for me. Harry and George could not. stop. talking. from the time they came home until they finally went, protesting, to an early bedtime. George in particular had a continuous stream of noise issuing from his word-hole, talking so much that he was even driving himself crazy. A sample:
George: Is you cookin’ supper?
Me: Yes, I am.
George: You is cookin’ supper?
Me: Yes, I am cooking supper?
George: You am cookin’ supper?
Me: *tries ignoring child*
George: *repeats question over and over and OVER until he dissolves in a puddle of angry, screamy tears*
And that was pretty much it, for every single object, task, and declarative statement he ran up against for six hours.
Today he’s got a runny nose, a slight fever, and a foul temper. Ron is also home sick with a dry, persistent cough, a fever, and aching joints. Harry went to school but he announced at breakfast that I am to “make” him go to bed a half-hour earlier from now on, because he thinks he’s not getting enough sleep.
It’s all very strange.
Meanwhile, it turns out that when Michael and I are childless for the first time in two years we revert to our courtin’ years; to wit, we got really drunk and danced a lot, and didn’t get back to the hotel until 1AM. I was nervous at first because through some horrible confluence of circumstances we ended up sitting at a Painfully-Awkward Table for Eight, including:
- a 24 year old receptionist who said “who’s that?” when told one of the door prizes was Blue Rodeo tickets
- her boyfriend, who smiled indulgently at her all night and seemed nice
- the new guy in Michael’s department
- his girlfriend, who had a truly terrible stammer and a handshake reminiscent of a dead codfish
- the divorced office manager
- her ex-husband, whom she brought as her date
But we all sort of bonded over our manful efforts not to giggle hysterically during the saying of grace (yes, grace was said at a corporate function in 2013). I think it was when the poor little fellow delivering the blessing said “thank you, oh lord, for providing this venue” that I lost it completely.
Besides, I can’t hear “let us bow our heads for the saying of grace” without thinking of this:
I am a terrible person.
We managed to keep up with the young ones, although as the night wore on and the pile of empty glasses in front of me got bigger I started to fear for my liver. We did at least have the sense to go back to the hotel instead of carrying on to the bar like those wacky kids. We didn’t completely lose sight of the fact that we are, in fact, in our 30s now.
Today though I am worn out, and truly baffled by a mystery that I’d like solved. I made sure on Friday to get all the laundry done so that I wouldn’t be confronted with a huge pile of it. This morning Harry had no clean socks (?) and the hamper is full to overflowing. There was no one in this house from 10AM Saturday until noon on Sunday, so where did all the dirty clothes come from? And where are Harry’s socks??