This weekend we hosted another round of family here at the Morgan Hostel. I downgraded us from a hotel or motel to a hostel since our visitors have to share a bathroom with two toddlers. And one of them (WHO IS FINALLY POTTY TRAINED, PRAISE THE LORD) doesn’t have very good aim. Also, our guests are forced to eat my questionable cooking . . . which just adds to whole “I may die if I stay here much longer” feeling.
[I think she says stuff like this to frighten away future visitors.]
With all the hustle and bustle of my parents’ visit, I didn’t have time to get Brian a Valentine’s Day card last week. I broke the cardinal rule of romance: ALWAYS get a card. The little-known, second rule of romance is this: ALWAYS fill the card with enough cash to offset the cringe-worthy sappiness of the card.
In an effort to evade the freezing rain in Atlanta, my parents came to town on Monday evening—two days before the day we all planned for them to arrive. Two days before the day the house would have been clean. Two days before the day the furniture would have been dusted. Two days before the day I would have had meals planned, prepared and frozen.
I know. Even I didn’t believe that last one.
It occurred to me recently that our kids have been pretty isolated this winter—what with all the infectious diseases, hazardous road conditions, bone-chilling temperatures, and 50-mile-an-hour winds.
You know, all the typical signs of the apocalypse.
Did you know that Al Gore freezing over is the 5th sign? Let’s just hope he wasn’t in Atlanta this past week or Kirk Cameron will have to make a movie about it. (In case you’re keeping track, that’s a religious, a political, a geographical, and a pop culture joke all rolled into one.)
[Please tell me she doesn’t think Kirk Cameron is representative of current pop culture.]
I just went so far off track I don’t even remember where I was going with this… Oh! Stir-crazy. That’s where I was.
It’s no secret around here that my dear husband doesn’t have much going on “up top.” He started balding around the same time we started dating back in January of 1999.
[That doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me…]
The poor guy hasn’t seen a full head of hair since we were in college. And, as the years go by and our children continually refuse to potty train, his scalp becomes more and more visible.
Yes, Brian’s hair is seriously thinning.
And, if you say it like Charlie Sheen—“THIN-ning”—it makes him laugh out loud.
As I mentioned to you on Monday’s post, we already partook in one Thanksgiving feast while my parents were here last week. It wasn’t as over-the-top as we’re accustomed to (we had only 6 or 7 side dishes this time), but it was absolutely delicious. Thanks to Brian’s turkey and my mom’s…well, everything else, it was a huge success. A great time was had by all!
Well, almost all.
In case you’re wondering why my posts have been pretty infrequent around here, I’m now able to share with you the reason why. I have been working on a story so near and dear to my heart that I have poured all of my free time and energy into it. This is a story so incredible that I flew from Kansas back to Georgia to capture it.
It’s a story about my Grandmother, Geraldine “Gerry” Hinesley, and the man who was her first love.
A story about a letter she wrote and how it arrived 69 years later…
Now that the weather has turned off cold again here in the Great Plains, we have resorted to our usual, indoor play areas around town. Before I had children, I didn’t understand or appreciate the beauty of a place where parents can corral their children like cattle while they sit by the entrance/exit with a cup of coffee and their electronic device of choice. Before I was a mother, those indoor playpens were little more than noisy, filthy Petri dishes that got stuck at the end of the mall near JCPenney and the family bathrooms. Before kids, I avoided these areas like the plague. Now, I RUN to them.
Bring on the E. coli!
We’ve got a bag full of sanitizing wipes to defeat it.
I’ve told y’all before that I’m not a huge fan of over-the-top, Pinterest-worthy birthday parties. For one, we don’t have the money to shell out on crafts supplies that I will purchase and then never complete. Second, our kids don’t eat sugar. At all. And I can’t think of a single kid (or parent for that matter) who would come to a birthday party without cake and ice cream. And, third, I can hardly get up the energy most days to “cook” for my own picky eaters. So, the idea of entertaining a bunch of other people’s picky eaters is pretty overwhelming.
Those of you who know my mom well probably just shook your heads and said, “The apple sure did fall far from the tree.” And you are absolutely right. Really, the apple fell off the tree, and while it was in mid-air, was swept up in a tornado, hit by a truck, and dumped in a field of buffalo manure in Kansas.
[Oh, no. Katy's using metaphors again. Someone call a therapist.]