Widowed

The kids have been playing this game for weeks, with Husband rolling his eyes and basically ignoring their yelps and squeals of delight and/or frustration.

Well, that all changed yesterday.  Husband found himself unleashing his Angry Bird fever all over those smug little piggies, and now, I’m alone.  I was trying to read with #1 son tonight, but he couldn’t stay focused for all of the yelping and giggling by his father, followed by the all to familiar theme song.  “Just a minute Mom.  I’ve got to see what level Dad is on,” and he ran off to join his brother and sister huddled around Daddy and his iphone.

I do admit, I had my Angry Bird moments a few weeks ago, but soon tired of its seeming endlessness.  I like things to conclude. Those piggies just keep coming up with more inventive and subversive ways to hide themselves.  I am no match for their genius.

Usually Husband is all cozied up in bed by 8:45 and hollering at me to hurry up and finish whatever it is I’m doing so he can go to sleep.  Now here it is, 9:48 and I see no sign of sleepiness.  Maybe it’s because of the nap he took while watching Megamind tonight.  (by the way, I never had much of a taste for Guns n’ Roses til I heard “Welcome to the Jungle” playing along with Megamind himself jigging it up in his black leather.  I might be making a purchase.  But don’t tell anyone.  My image might not survive it.)

#1 son was in rare form with his amazing dance moves tonight.  I swear he would make an excellent candidate for the Boy’s Dance Class at a local studio, but he swears he has no interest.  I must admit that I utter a slight sigh of relief every time he claims to be more interested in soccer.  (even though he spent much of last season watching from the sidelines, snuggled into my side.)  A new soccer season begins soon.  I’m exercising my best relaxation techniques to use on the sidelines.  In keeping with their parent’s tradition, our offspring are not exactly *adept* at the sports.  But as long as they have fun. . .

*Adept*.  Several weeks ago I signed up for a clay throwing class at our University’s Art center.  The center is pretty cool- an offsite hippie artist village in the hills of Middle TN.  I claimed to have “no expectations” going in, but who am I kidding?  I expected myself to sit down at that wheel and throw a couple of balanced, if simple pots on the first night.

Boy, I should have really had NO expectations because NOTHING is what I had after three hours at the wheel.

A BIG FAT NOTHING.

Wheel throwing is really hard.

And I really suck at it.

But I went back for week #2, and actually threw two extremely lopsided cylinders.  It made me think of what Frankenstein’s mother must have felt.

Angry Birds, G n R, and Clay.

Goodnight.

 

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