When I woke up at 8:30 this morning and couldn't fall back asleep, I thought, no way this day is going to end well. And it still might not. It's only 3:15.
However, after being lazy for another 30 minutes, the day got off to a rockin' start. My child looked precious watching Richard Scarry on TV (Why does that cat wear lederhosen?). My husband miraculously rose from the bed about 10 minutes after I did. And that never happens. (Although he wouldn't let me make up the bed for another 45 minutes because he still wanted the option to get back in it.) We all sat on the couch and watched Richard Scarry (Why lederhosen? Is he a German cat?). Husband made coffee. A full pot with whatever leftover, scarce Starbucks we had. I made 2 popeyes, one devoured by myself in about 2.1 seconds and another that sat untouched by the 4 year old who was entranced by Richard Scarry (LEDERHOSEN?!). And then my husband voluntarily sat outside with me while we drank our coffee, and we chatted about our friends from college (yes, you), choosing a church, and the fact that the tadpoles were possibly a disgusting bacteria (I poured them out yesterday). I kept thinking, "My time's gotta be running out. He's going to return to bed or tell me to be quiet." But I preemptively made up the bed while he showered, and let's face it, it's not wise to tell your wife to be quiet. He was a sport as the sudden increase in caffeine (I had more coffee this morning than I've had in 3 months) and jitters probably increased my speed of wordage. At this point, it's not even 11 a.m. It's a good day, yall. I have a captive audience, and obviously my child is still watching TV. It is Saturday, after all.
But it gets better.
We saw our sweet neighbor who we hadn't seen since May. We caught up on their trip to California and seeing their son's new school (USC), being back in NY, and how unprepared BP was to fix the leak. I even got to speak to his wonderful wife who is on Long Island for the summer on the telephone. Lovely.
Next up: To the library we go, where Wiley rents the Wizard of Oz, and I buy The Yummy Mummy's Survival Guide: How to put the mmmm back into motherhood for a pound.
And then we went to Panzers. Heaven in London, if you ask me. Betty Crocker, Duncan Hines, Bisquick, Aunt Jemima, Old El Paso, Cheerios, JIF, Skippy, and Grape Jelly all live here. They also make an amazing deli sandwich (with my turkey grilled for precaution) on a baguette that I have recently been craving. After Wil almost attacked the man for pretending to not serve/fix me my sandwich (Wil didn't know he was kidding. It wasn't obvious, and in Wil's defense, it would be just like a Brit to refuse something like that. At lunchtime. Because, heck, he just is tired of spreading mayo and mustard. To heck with making money. I digress.), and now I don't know what happened after.
Right. Yes, Yes I do. Because I almost got us killed during it. So we walk out of Panzers, discussing whether or not to get ground beef (beef mince) at Tesco's when we hear this gem of a conversation at the crosswalk:
Child: "mumble, mumble."
A.M: "...Interest? Don't you get the concept? Don't you understand?"
At this point, I can hardly restrain myself from laughing because this mother is seriously upset her 6 year old child doesn't understand interest. Heck, I don't even understand interest even though my dad and husband have tried to explain it and stocks/bonds/monopoly money/whatever countless times. Wil and I are exchanging glances that say "WTF?" As we are crossing one side of the street (I'm obnoxiously close at this point), I hear her say "$500" and "Mommy and Daddy do this.." as if she is trying to put it in layman's terms...or child-friendly terms. "Eating vegetables? It's what Mommy and Daddy do to grow big and strong? Don't you understand?"
I'm determined to stay with this family to hear what other gems this crazy lady will bequeath upon a son who probably just wondered how the money magically appeared out of an ATM when she put in a card and punched out a PIN. Unfortunately, she steps out just before a light changes and crosses to the median while Wil pulls me back before I step out in front of the number 82 bus. Judging by the way she crosses the street with 2 children, I'd guess they like to take risks in the stock market.
Wil just thinks I'm nuts for stalking them now, and he wants to tell the kid he should get into private equity or venture capital.
And don't worry, I did catch up. But by then the mom and son were charging down the road and the lag-behind 5 year old daughter kept giving me weird looks and pumping her legs harder to keep up with mommy and get away from the other lady (me) who is laughing and cupping her ears to hear better. Maybe the mom knew I was listening. Maybe she was doing insider trading with a 6 year old. I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that lady was nuts. Or she had just quit her job on Wall Street (for her husband's new job in London, duh) and her children are desperately missing their nanny who only spoke to them in another language and who they could trick into giving them candy. Pure speculation, of course.
Oh, and I'm not done. It's still only 2 p.m. at this point. Caffeine-high still coursing through my veins.
We return home, I start a Rod Stewart special I recorded months ago. Am chastised into a family lunch at the table instead of the sofa. And Rod's face is still frozen with his finger precariously close to his nostril. Odd.
Oh, right, the funny part.
Wil decided he wants to buy Wiley a Roald Dahl Treasury book he saw at our friend's house. To Amazon-land the boys go. To my bed (It's made up still.) I gomwith my Yummy Mummy book. Next thing I know, I'm laughing out loud at this hilarious Brit's sense of humour (the Brits love to add an extra "u" or change the "z" to an "s".) as she tells me (as if I don't know already) that "your tummy will become more wobbly for a while, but this is absolutely curable with enough crunching and squeezing, if wobbly's not your thing." There is more, but I'd hate to scare my younger (a.k.a. my age) audience away from having children. Because someday when I have teenagers, I'd love to go to the Tot Lot with you and your babies. And if you are my mother or mother-in-law or either of their friends reading this or you have kids then you already know about all the fun changes your body takes/makes, and I don't need to tell you about those. Anyway. The book is hilarious.
But not as funny as overhearing my husband (who has already shopping cart-ed the Roald Dahl book) reading a sample page of Uncle Remus.
If you don't know Uncle Remus, then you haven't had the distinct pleasure of growing up in an utterly un-politically correct home in the Deep South. It means if I tell you that you are being like the Tar Baby you won't know what I'm talking about. And the Tar Baby--it's not about the BP oil spill. You've been deprived that's all. Or you are a Yankee, and in that case, Bless your heart.
The book is in a different language. It just is. Now you can buy it (Up North, I'm sure) in a politically correct version that loses all the charm that the original copy gives, and you'll be able to read it without stuttering. However, if you were lucky growing up, you either have a grandparent who can recite those stories to you by heart, or you have a parent who can read Remus. (I realize I'm being totally un-PC. Do forgive me. Lawdy, that sounded British.) Thankfully, I have a father who I'm 99.9% sure can still speak Remus remarkably well as I clearly remember him reading my Nana's copy of it to me at her house when I was little. He also tended to make "Tar Baby" references when we wouldn't answer his questions. So into the shopping cart went Uncle Remus with the postscript of "Big Dean will read this to you, Wiley." Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on which side of the Mason-Dixon you fall on) we can't do Remus without sounding ridiculous or stuttering. Ah, good ole Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit.
See, what a good day!
And now my hubby is off buying his favorite whiskey or scotch (I don't know which or what the difference is) at a store where they seduce you into buying likely overpriced, but they make it sound oh so wonderful and smooth, spirits. Literally these men who drank too much at Oxford (that's what they told me themselves) speak poetry about whiskey all day and offer samples. They speak of woody and fruity flavors, and I wonder how it is they get paid to do this all day. Berry Brothers and Rudd if you are wondering. It's a London institution, and Wil's favorite luxury. St. James Park. Near Buckingham Palace. Go there. You will be woo-ed.
Anyway, hubs is buying whiskey. Child is taking a rest. Mom is about to un-pause Rod Stewart so he doesn't pick his nose. It's still a good day and now it's 4:05.
And if you made it this far you should probably fix yourself a drink, or drink a drink for me. You can raise your glass to my increasingly large belly and say "bless that unborn child whose mother writes unbearably long blogs, and may I never visit Wakeforestmama again!"
Cheers!
