I don't think anyone ever gets used to us. Even I don't. My friend/neighbor who is like a dad to me looks at the pile of "stuff for our trip" and is incredulous.
"I can go 2 months with a small duffel," he slurs. He's like a dad to me. No. Not the one I always wanted. An old guy who comes over and says inappropriate things.
"I can too, without these hooligans and all their stuff. What do you suggest? Wiping their butts with paper napkins from McDs? Improvised TPN with Mountain Dew? They do look the same."
He back pedals just enough to not look idiot. We finish packing and go. Then we get to our destination, and the hurriedly masked look of horror on our hostesses face leads me to the conclusion that my fearless co-pilot did not warn them that: we're moving in.
I know it's just 4 nights. But the mini-van is packed tight, front to back, top to bottom. It's almost as dense as the end of the school year and moving back home with all your shite.
And these are the Mother's Day gifts that I will cherish I'm guessing into my amnesia filled alzeimery old age: the nephrology fellow's follow-up phone call to tell me that we aren't just "good keeping up with Bo," but "damn good;" being invited back by the friends whose house we invaded and fully took over; seeing the heartwrenching creatives from CCS and their new digs (I did cry at the fine arts exhibit: they may not always have the most sophisticated ideas, they _are_ mostly around 21/22, give em a break), but they have been trained to the most rigorous level of complete execution (polished, dazzling and layered); and the glee my maniacs expressed on our return to our gingerbread house on top of the rainbow, next to the herd of unicorns.
Love to all the mommas out there. May your maniacs sleep in. May your spouses allow your craigslisting to go uncommented upon. May your new HE washer/dryer set's happy chime send a thrill down your spine (no, I still don't cook, but I DO love my new set). May you all wake up to fight another day.
I love you all.
