So, this weekend my husband and our two boys decided to go on a “man trip.” They do this every once in a while. According to my boys, it’s a trip just for guys, where they’re allowed to consume gross non-Mom-approved junk food, to fart and belch, where they use neither their manners nor silverware, they do wild and crazy stuff, get covered in dirt, and not have to take baths.
About 3:30pm on Friday, both boys are keyed up. Can’t wait! Can’t wait! Can’t wait! When can we go? When can we go? When can we go? When will Dad be home? Are we going shopping for junk food first? Can’t wait!
Now. Enter my baby, my love: my glorious vintage camper. It’s a 1964 Streamline and I absolutely adore it. I got it this last summer. It was very affordable (read: needed lots of work) and I fell in love with it immediately.
I adore it so much, that I have a pinboard on Pinterest devoted to all the ideas I’m gathering up to inspire me in ways I will redecorate and remodel it.
NOTE: most of my ideas and inspirations on there are girly and glitzy with lots and lots of white. In other words, will never work with my family of wild boys. But hey. A girl can dream. Leave me alone.
Anyways husband gets home late, we eat, they pack their bag of “essentials”, along with a couple sacks of food and snacks, and I’m positively thrilled to see that toothbrushes were packed without prompting. This is huge, people.
So. The guys borrow MY camper to go on this Man Trip. They decide to park it at my husband’s company parking lot (I knew there was a reason he installed those electrical hookups on the building) since it is already late before they leave.
They had dinner with me first, and then excitedly left. They’re roughing it, right? Ten feet from the bathroom. Smack dab in the midst of civilization. Which only goes to show you that you can rough it virtually anywhere. Or something like that…
They called me a few times. Little things. Having a ton of fun. Great. Wonderful. Fantastic. I curl up in bed and
go to sleep, then get irked at both of my parents for waking me by each texting me after 9pm read some poetry, do some research, and catch up on correspondence.
The whole king sized bed to myself. No restless sleeping husband. No children coming into my room because something woke them. All. To. My. Self.
It’s ridiculously easy to make a bed in the morning when it’s only you who slept in it.
Speaking of morning. They called at 7-ish. In the morning. Guess why. Go ahead. Guess. Well, because they were hungry of course! The quick breakfast items they’d brought wouldn’t fit the bill. These wild cavemen were HUNGRY, to a point that grits couldn’t satisfy. So, husband puts the youngest on the phone, knowing I cannot resist. Ah, what a sneaky ploy. Youngest, in his sweetest voice and with a drawl that melts butter, requests that I bring them bacon and eggs.
“You know, Mom. REAL breakfast. Not this stuff that Dad brought. Please?”
Fine. Fine fine. I crawl out of bed, and threw on some old jeans and a tee. I grabbed some eggs from the fridge and a pound of bacon. I stop at a convenience store and pick up some orange juice for them. Aren’t I nice? Yes. Yes I am. Say it or I’ll take the bacon and eggs right back.
While delivering food, husband suggests I stay with boys and he goes home. No way, buster brown. “Isn’t the big game coming on soon?” he queries me. Nope. Ha. Dream on.
I return home, to do
nothing laundry, dishes, and dust the chair railings.
It doesn’t last long. I make a few more trips to them, all urgently necessary. I take them to lunch. I bring Nintendos. Chargers. Drinks. To check yet again to see if somehow they’ve rescheduled the playoff games at the last minute to today instead of Sunday. About the time I’m considering dropping my iPhone into a toilet, they decide they want to come home and the trip is finished. What? So soon? When you had delivery for every possible need?
From what I’ve been able to gather from my boys, the youngest one tried to teach the older one how to fight. The youngest is involved in every sport that comes to town, and love karate. The older one, not so much. So. My youngest trustingly shows his older brother the appropriate stance, and a basic punch.
Now. The oldest one had suddenly had his interest in fighting piqued by their father and his
tall tales family history stories shared on this particular Man Trip. Supposedly, back in the dusty annals of his family genealogy, there was some loose connection to a gang called the Marlow Gang.
So. Older brother is wide-eyed with fascination over these certainly-embellished stories, and is thrilled to now know how to effectively punch. He decides to test his skills out.
On his younger brother.
*No blood. Just tears.
**in Mom-triage, no blood means a hug and some reassurance. It’ll be fine.
They are home now. Sent to take baths immediately upon crossing the threshold. Tired, dusty, muddy, and done with yet another much-fabled Man Trip. They even supposedly used those toothbrushes.
I know that someday, they’ll look back and remember these weekends with fondness and joy. I hope that they will smile as they remember all the fun, all the messes, the time spent with each other, and all the stories.
They’re happy. They had fun. So I’m happy…just with lots more laundry to do now.