I don’t succumb to sick often; I am a warrior. Except when I’m not, and then I get my Vick’s Vapo-Rub on with the best of them. I don’t. But after three weeks of a highly-scheduled life, I waved the white flag and allowed the dark side to win. There’s probably a Star Wars metaphor in there, but I don’t have it in me to work it through. I’m really dumb when I’m sick. I’m dumb but I’m HILARIOUS, and by hilarious I mean slap happy, entertaining (yet again) a very small audience: myself. I’m funny, just ask me.
Friday night was the kids’ school dance. I learned that my little kid has got some moves, for reals, and that he really loves to explore his space (insert visual of Will Ferrell doing “more cowbell” at Christopher Walken’s behest). I learned that my little kid knows the words and moves to such (quotes intended for effect here) “classics” as Gangnam Style, The Macarena, Watch me Whip (and in the name of all that’s dear, don’t you forget the Nae Nae) and the Chicken Dance. Super. My role in the neighborhood edition of elementary school Dance Fever was as concessionaire, which is now my favorite word of the week. The middle school kids were selling concessions to support their class trip to our nation’s capitol next year, so our family “volunteered” (yes, the quotes) to supply and vend highly sugared food and beverages to the 5th grade and under set. My big kid enjoyed the dance less than the little guy, but that’s because he was employed in actual work which is NEVER fun for apathetic middle schoolers. He’s not a super coordinated dancer, but I did catch some killer chair-dance moves during the Cha-Cha Slide. I am a badass chair dancer, and I was delighted to get visual confirmation that my son IS MINE, he IS!! I knew like I knew the sun would rise on Saturday, that the dance was the wall, and that as soon as we would arrive home, I’d hit that wall. Oh, but I did. Hard.
I wanted to do something fun with the boys this weekend to celebrate love. Not a fine dining kind of celebration, but some outing somewhere fun just to spend time together to acknowledge the love I feel for these yahoos. That’s Valentine’s Day enough for this girl. When you forego showering and brushing your teeth for thirty-four hours though, it’s hard to get down with love. Because getting off the couch to change the channel felt tantamount to running a marathon, I watched the Los Angeles Marathon, the Olympic qualifier–it was on, who was I to question? Who was I to move even? I watched men and women run balls out for several hours in a row, when I couldn’t work the remote control, so complex and challenging it was in my ague. Those marathoners wore me out, man they took it out of me, so I fell asleep (the first nap I’ve taken in I can’t tell you how long!), and naturally those freaks of physical and physiological perfection were still running when I awoke. At 4:30 yesterday, I undertook a major task of my own–I took a shower. And then I took another nap, ’cause holy crap, that shower was E-X-H-A-U-S-T-I-N-G.
I’ve never been a Valentine’s Day fool. I get it, but I don’t really get why girls lose their heads over it. I’m not such a cynic that I think it’s all BS–I LOVE love, but I don’t need overpriced roses or enormous mylar balloons on the day to know that my husband loves me. I always get him a card and some token of recognition, because why? Because I LOVE love, pay attention! But I’m OK with lunch at Five Guys or Kopps (custard, bitches!) or even breakfast at home. I am not a creative person, so Pinterest and Etsy make me feel alternately murderous and envious around the holidays. I realized this morning that one of the ways I show my family I love them is through food. I am a decent cook, and I very much enjoy cooking for my family. I feel slightly more among the living so far today, so I put together a (I think) lovely breakfast for my three boys. It’s the best way I know how to demonstrate my love for them. There’s no way I’ll paint a cute sign or sew a cute Valentine’s Day blanket or wall canvas–I’m SO singularly bad at arts and crafts–but I can cook you something from my heart. THAT I can do. Food = love. There’s math I can get behind. I love you, my family.
My little kid, he of the dancing fame, and I think a pretty darn funny kid in development, gave me this valentine, which probably affected his teacher’s opinion of me in one of two distinct ways: I’m either the least responsible mother of the year, or the one she wants to have margaritas with. Probably the second. I mean my kid’s totally cool, and that has to come from somewhere, right? His valentine contained lyrics and movie lines that we giggle conspiratorially together over. And because I was feeling crappy, he gave it to me a day early to cheer me up. I am doing something right, and here’s evidence:
Since I don’t have the budget or husband quite willing enough to take me to Florida for a Valentine’s Day Barenaked Ladies concert tonight, what I’m most in love with doing this Valentine’s Day is watching the season premiere of The Walking Dead. Because nothing says love like zombies, y’all.