So I am now the mom to an 8 year old. Which just sounds stinking old because it's only 2 years away from 10 which is two years away from 12 which is 4 years away from 16 which means almost GROWN which means I am practically a GRANDMA ALREADY oh my skull deep exhale so please let's just quit talking about it can we?
For Shep's birthday party last weekend, he wanted to go the Battleship Texas. With his dad. And grandad. And buddies. And truly there was NO need for Mom. So y'all - get this - the daddies did the party and the mommies stayed home.
Is that not the coolest thing you've heard all week??
Look how cute they were, all hot and sweaty and revved up with hot sweatiness.
Now I have been to the Battleship Texas often enough. Granted the last time I went I was rockin the Garanimals but my memory of it can be summed up in two words: hot and gray.
Why look! - it's still hot and gray!
Walker took him down there and they ate lunch and ice cream while I sat in air conditioned comfort. Because I don't know if y'all have heard or not but IT IS SO HOT DOWN HERE IT IS NOT TO BE BELIEVED.
Listen, when life-long Houstonians say "It's hot", it's just way different than when, say, Kelly says it's hot.
Look. This was yesterday in my car.
Okay you might not want to look because it is simply obscene.
Make sure there are no kids in the room.
But looky - tomorrow we're supposed to get a cold front!!
Good to the grief.
Friday was Shep's actual birthday and on their birthdays, my kiddos get the joy of all day menu planning. Which is how Maggie ended up with a crime scene for breakfast, remember? Well evidently Shep's not into murder mystery meals because this year he said, "Can we go to a restaurant?" Well, sure! Up at 6am we were (yawn) and sitting in a Denny's shortly thereafter.
Shep opened the gifts Walker had purchased him (including an MRE - click here, I didn't know what they were either) while I had the opportunity to begin my day the way that Jesus woulda, if he coulda:
I praise you Lord, for glorifying yourself through grits and butter. Lots of butter.
Eva Rose was just hyper at the restaurant. And ravenous as she beheld the glory of the Grand Slam Junior and then scarfed everyone else's leftovers in between bouncing rather annoyingly on the booth cushion. I finally looked at her and said, "Eva Rose! Use your manners! Quit being a pig!"
She took a bite of her bacon and replied, "I'm not being a pig. I'm eating a pig."
My daughter is no vegetarian. And I am glad. I have nothing against vegetarians and am not a huge carnivore myself, but don't I have enough issues in this House of Many People All of Whom Are Individuals With Their Own Individual and Sometimes Irritating Wants and Needs?
I have baggage on this issue, as I was scarred by the story of how my friend Kimberly became a vegetarian. She was five years old and went on a field trip with her kindergarten class to a farm. About a week later was Thanksgiving, and her mother remarked, "This is a turkey like the one you saw last week." Kimberly burst into tears, ran from the table, and no animal product has polluted her body since 1975.
I cataloged vegetarian child with all the other parenting horror stories: drownings, fires, disease, daughters resisting smocking, and so on. I have prayed in the name of Jesus that I would never encounter such atrocities.
This summer we were driving back from Jessica's parents' ranch (aka heaven) and saw some little precious lambs frolicking gleefully in a sunny Texas pasture.
"Oh, look there!" the little children cried.
"Yes, those are lambs. Just like the lamb you had for dinner the other night," said their father.
I gasped quietly. And froze.
And waited to see which way my fate would be thusly directed.
"Oh," said Eva Rose, "hi little lambys! You are so adorable."
Then she added, "And delicious."
And I was thankful.