Siesta Saturday
As has been previously outlined, the cop and I are not youngsters. Don't get me wrong, we aren't ancient. We just opted to do the whole "responsible" thing where you get married, have steady employment, get a house, and then procreate. It worked for us. I'm not saying it's necessary, but knowing that half of my kids genetics would come from a man who honestly believes that it's perfectly reasonable for one piece of kitchen cutlery to cost the same as a month of daycare for a preschooler it just seemed risky to bring them into the world before we could afford them.
Being older parents has afforded us lots of opportunities, and we have a blast. But it can also be humbling. Such as my encounter with the Walmart fabric clerk. While buying patterns and fabric (for my mother to sew for me, because Lord knows I don't have those skills) and attempting to maintain some semblance of control over my two wild children in the cart, I was asked by the clerk if I had any daughters. When I explained I had OLDER daughters and a couple of grandchildren she nodded, unsurprised, and told me not to sweat it because I was still a "hot granny." She expressed sadness that she waited too long, not having her children until she was in her early twenties, and would now never be a "GILF" like me.
Maybe I should have been flattered. I was a little unsure, however, if the fabric clerk was hitting on me, and opted instead to just resort to my natural instinct of grief when referred to as a "granny," hot or no. I paired this with despair that the youth of today seem to think their early twenties is "too old" for ANYTHING, and went home and comforted myself with Lucky Charms and wine. And all was right in the world again.
For the past several years the cop and I have maintained a cut throat pace in life, and recently the opportunity has arisen for us to stop and smell the much lauded roses. Not mine, mind you, since the deer ate those in one of my moments of absentmindedness where I inadvertently forgot to close one of what seems like a million perimeter fences and hungry mountain rats (aka deer) cleaned them out in the heartbeat it took me to remember and close the gate...but I digress. Lately we have been spending time doing what we had previously perceived as relaxing. We've spent days at the lake with friends, having picnics and playing in the water. And several weeks ago we opted to add in a little scenic hike post picnic.
It seemed like an ideal plan. Of course, it involved our two and also numerous friends children. And so, eight children under the age of 12 and seven adults who had just spent all morning prepping and traveling to "relax" then celebrating with a massive picnic of carne asada, embarked on a hike through wildflowers to another, more secluded lake only one and a half miles away.
But wait, did I mention the sign said it was "moderate difficulty?"
Did I mention the second trailmarker advised the trail was actually two miles, not one and a half?
And did I mention we were at almost 8,000 feet elevation to START our scenic little jaunt?
After the first half mile the three year old demanded to be carried on shoulders. That responsibility falls to the cop, who has the bum lower back as opposed to my bum neck. Unfortunately that meant that after the first mile and a half, when we realized the hike would from here forward be vertical and lead us to actual snow still on the peaks and the five year old demanded to be carried on a back there was only one vacancy.
Yes, we eventually made it to the top. And it was beautiful. And we were very, very near to the heavens, which made the thunderstorm which opened up on us that much more intense, prompting the hustle down. Halfway back the five year old decided he had to poop. But I convinced him to hold it. And he would have, had we not gotten lost, thus adding at least a half a mile UPHILL, (and no, I can't even conceive how that could be possible other than to add fodder to the stories I will regale the children with later about surviving the Bataan death march hike which actually was UPHILL both ways). So my five year old, lacking the coordination to squat and suspend on his own, tagged in his poor helpless mother to help him poop in the woods. On the bright side, it gave me an absolute out as to carrying him any further on my back. On the negative, a full stomach of carne asada mid hike came perilously close to carne asada vomit as I made the mistake of standing down wind while I held his two hands to suspend him and got whiffs of what he giggling referred to as some of his "stinkiest poo ever!"
Recovery from this hike was not an easy matter. We most likely would have been fine, minus carrying any children. But the recovery has led to what is now my most perfect invention ever - siesta Saturday. Because the week following the hike soccer started and we still weren't 100%, and dang it you just can't live that way!
Saturdays in the late summer are consumed by soccer. You can't travel because you will at some point in the day have a 45 minute game (which is of course 45 minutes away from your house). Which has allowed for siesta Saturday. It's my ingenious plan where I leave food out for the wild boys, turn a movie on, set the house alarm so it will tell me if they attempt an escape, and nap. Normally they'd be WAY to noisy for me to get away with this, but once they realize I will force them to nap with me if they wake me they actually hold it together long enough for me to get the sleep I need to recover from the frantic pace of six am wake ups and gathering of soccer gear and snack...no wait, I forgot to buy snack and will have to sneak in to a store between our crack of dawn photo's with the team and still unreasonably early game... You get the idea.
Don't get me wrong. While I'm not willing to commit to any complimentary granny title, I'm still thinking I'm a pretty cool mom. And the cop, greatly appreciating the invent of siesta Saturdays, is thinking I'm pretty much the best wife ever. With age comes wisdom, after all.
Until next time, my friends.
Being older parents has afforded us lots of opportunities, and we have a blast. But it can also be humbling. Such as my encounter with the Walmart fabric clerk. While buying patterns and fabric (for my mother to sew for me, because Lord knows I don't have those skills) and attempting to maintain some semblance of control over my two wild children in the cart, I was asked by the clerk if I had any daughters. When I explained I had OLDER daughters and a couple of grandchildren she nodded, unsurprised, and told me not to sweat it because I was still a "hot granny." She expressed sadness that she waited too long, not having her children until she was in her early twenties, and would now never be a "GILF" like me.
Maybe I should have been flattered. I was a little unsure, however, if the fabric clerk was hitting on me, and opted instead to just resort to my natural instinct of grief when referred to as a "granny," hot or no. I paired this with despair that the youth of today seem to think their early twenties is "too old" for ANYTHING, and went home and comforted myself with Lucky Charms and wine. And all was right in the world again.
For the past several years the cop and I have maintained a cut throat pace in life, and recently the opportunity has arisen for us to stop and smell the much lauded roses. Not mine, mind you, since the deer ate those in one of my moments of absentmindedness where I inadvertently forgot to close one of what seems like a million perimeter fences and hungry mountain rats (aka deer) cleaned them out in the heartbeat it took me to remember and close the gate...but I digress. Lately we have been spending time doing what we had previously perceived as relaxing. We've spent days at the lake with friends, having picnics and playing in the water. And several weeks ago we opted to add in a little scenic hike post picnic.
It seemed like an ideal plan. Of course, it involved our two and also numerous friends children. And so, eight children under the age of 12 and seven adults who had just spent all morning prepping and traveling to "relax" then celebrating with a massive picnic of carne asada, embarked on a hike through wildflowers to another, more secluded lake only one and a half miles away.
But wait, did I mention the sign said it was "moderate difficulty?"
Did I mention the second trailmarker advised the trail was actually two miles, not one and a half?
And did I mention we were at almost 8,000 feet elevation to START our scenic little jaunt?
After the first half mile the three year old demanded to be carried on shoulders. That responsibility falls to the cop, who has the bum lower back as opposed to my bum neck. Unfortunately that meant that after the first mile and a half, when we realized the hike would from here forward be vertical and lead us to actual snow still on the peaks and the five year old demanded to be carried on a back there was only one vacancy.
Yes, we eventually made it to the top. And it was beautiful. And we were very, very near to the heavens, which made the thunderstorm which opened up on us that much more intense, prompting the hustle down. Halfway back the five year old decided he had to poop. But I convinced him to hold it. And he would have, had we not gotten lost, thus adding at least a half a mile UPHILL, (and no, I can't even conceive how that could be possible other than to add fodder to the stories I will regale the children with later about surviving the Bataan death march hike which actually was UPHILL both ways). So my five year old, lacking the coordination to squat and suspend on his own, tagged in his poor helpless mother to help him poop in the woods. On the bright side, it gave me an absolute out as to carrying him any further on my back. On the negative, a full stomach of carne asada mid hike came perilously close to carne asada vomit as I made the mistake of standing down wind while I held his two hands to suspend him and got whiffs of what he giggling referred to as some of his "stinkiest poo ever!"
Recovery from this hike was not an easy matter. We most likely would have been fine, minus carrying any children. But the recovery has led to what is now my most perfect invention ever - siesta Saturday. Because the week following the hike soccer started and we still weren't 100%, and dang it you just can't live that way!
Saturdays in the late summer are consumed by soccer. You can't travel because you will at some point in the day have a 45 minute game (which is of course 45 minutes away from your house). Which has allowed for siesta Saturday. It's my ingenious plan where I leave food out for the wild boys, turn a movie on, set the house alarm so it will tell me if they attempt an escape, and nap. Normally they'd be WAY to noisy for me to get away with this, but once they realize I will force them to nap with me if they wake me they actually hold it together long enough for me to get the sleep I need to recover from the frantic pace of six am wake ups and gathering of soccer gear and snack...no wait, I forgot to buy snack and will have to sneak in to a store between our crack of dawn photo's with the team and still unreasonably early game... You get the idea.
Don't get me wrong. While I'm not willing to commit to any complimentary granny title, I'm still thinking I'm a pretty cool mom. And the cop, greatly appreciating the invent of siesta Saturdays, is thinking I'm pretty much the best wife ever. With age comes wisdom, after all.
Until next time, my friends.
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