Weekend of the Small Sweatshirt

I came downstairs on Saturday morning and my husband was wearing a very small sweatshirt.  He said he was cold, and it was the only thing he could find to wear.  It cracked me up so much that I could not speak to him without giggling for several hours, and the giggling recurred at odd intervals all weekend.  The sweatshirt was left at our house by some unknown guest and I have never been able to figure out exactly to whom it might belong despite grilling every visitor for months.  Anyway, it looked very tiny on Stephen.  The man has longer arms than anyone other than Michael Phelps.  "So, why aren't you wearing your wee sweatshirt this morning, Mr. Man?"  He is extremely tiny, as well as being very big.

He did some hilarious hip-hop dancing this afternoon in response to music on a commercial and I remembered how much I so love him - the man can dance and he can make me laugh, so joyful the dancing!  Our boy Toe can do some dancing too and sometimes I will catch him just grooving away by himself in the hall or out in the yard.  He stops when I see him, but that boy is a natural.  It's a gift.  It makes my heart soar, watching.  I wish he would do it all the time.

Toe and I went to the track to run yesterday and he just bounced along, so happy and free, light as air.  I plodded like Frankenstein in pursuit of him but at the end this monster almost caught the sprite.  Slow and steady wins the race, just about.  He will never let me actually win, even if it kills him.  He will draaaag himself across that finish line if it means his mother won't win.  I had to work at least 25 years to learn how to get myself across that line but it only took him a few to want it.  Lucky boy.

Ty and I hiked up a mountain today to this tower:

The view:

I thought that the exercise this weekend would do me good but I guess all the wine and food takes its toll despite my longing and wishing.  The song remains the same.  Months of sloth and gluttony cannot be erased by a couple of days of activity.  Whine.  Or should I say, Wine.

Speaking of whine, Stephen and Toe made a very funny list of rules while Ty and I were hiking:

Rules At My Beach:

1.    No Swimming. 
2.    No getting wet.
3.    No BBQs.
4.    No digging in the sand.
5.    No sunbathing.
6.    No having fun.
7.    No breathing.
8.    No laughing.
9.    No eating.
10.   No reading.
11.   No fishing.

Things You Can Do at My Beach:

1. Cry.
2. Complain.
3. Whine.
4. Ask to go Home a Lot.
5. Throw Rocks.
6. Stare at the Water.
7. Buy my Very Expensive Food.  (But Don't Eat It!  See Rule # 9 Above).

Last weekend of the summer.  Poignant, and yet welcome.  Here comes a new season. 

Comments

[meno]

Hey, i've been to that beach!

[crazymumma]

Yes. Bittersweet change. I will miss them when they go back to school, but I will welcome it as well.

[qt]

Those lists are hysterical! I wonder if it is the same on the European beaches? They always seem to be lounging about, eating effortlessly gourmet foods.

And OMG, the wee sweatshirt. I would get mileage out of that one for months. I'm just obnoxious like that.

[hele]

While driving home I remembered why I love F so much and your post reminded me to go tell him right now.

[Janelle]

it looks so beautiful where you live. wow! X janelle