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Monday, November 19, 2012

Solo.

Last week my mother came to visit me.  In a way, my father, uncles, cousins, nephews and brothers also came to visit, but not really.  They came to my town to have a golf reunion (wherein they avoid talking to each other the whole time by golfing 36 holes a day and falling into bed exhausted at night).  As you can imagine, I didn't see much of them (although we had two very lovely dinner visits). 

As always happens before my mom comes, I tried to clean my house up before she came.  Aside from a few hot spots (my bedroom) we did pretty well.  In the way that my mother always has, she brought with her a bubble of organization and capability that I am personally unacquainted with.  She looked at me after a few days and said, "Oh, this is such a lovely vacation for me!"  Okay, I said, if your idea of vacation is doing all my laundry, dishes, and cooking, then you should come here more often.

She laughed, "I'm not the kind of person who can sit down."  No kidding.  Her version of vacation is how I picture an old-school Soviet work camp. 

The children were so delighted to see her.  I took them out of school for one day and we went to Fort Toulouse to look at the old forts.  The kids collected Spanish moss from the trees (at Veev's request so that she could use the moss for bedding for her cat den), poked at a deer carcass (left over from a tanning demonstration at Frontier Days), and wandered the fort and park area.  We were going to go to the zoo, but Veevs protested that we've seen the zoo a zillion times.  Membership has its privileges, but they are lost on her. 

But now I'm alone again.  Me and my laundry.  And my dishes.

Rhett went with my male family members golfing and although they were all very kind, he confided to me later that he was, in fact, truly awful at golfing.  When he came out in the morning of the golf outing, he was sporting a navy blue collared shirt, khakis, and a sea-foam sweater vest, all on top of a skin tight white UnderArmour shirt.  Whoa, whoa, whoa, I said, what's going on there?

Rhett looked offended.  I am, he said with grave dignity, following the example of Uncle Mike.

While it is true that Uncle Mike wore a sweater vest the night before, I'm guessing he would have been appalled to see his fashion so desecrated. 

Look, I said, lose the sweater vest and the UnderArmour, and you might just pass.

But what if I get sunburned?  Did you see Trent yesterday?  Talk about a white boy with a sunburn!

I considered it a small win when he ditched the sweater vest.

My littlest baby is learning to eat all sorts of junk, and boycotting baby food.  This is always a little sad, because a) it means my baby is growing up, and b) it means I have to start thinking about what to feed him.  Additionally, he is all over the place, and has developed a penchant for pulling out all the books from my bookcase.  It was cute the first 43 times I cleaned it up, but now after approximately 578 times, it is losing it's charm.  However, how can I complain?  He is my LAST BABY!  Is it a rule that you have to cherish every moment with your LAST BABY, or am I allowed to celebrate that I am eleven months closer to never having to change another diaper?


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