We Get the Boys For the Night
Also Known As: Why Grandparents Have Gray Hair)
We have the boys for the night — what a joy.
And by “joy,” I mean chaos wrapped in giggles, dipped in dirt, and sprinkled with Gold Bond powder.
This morning I was already outside, hosing off the tarp to the kiddie pool like a woman preparing for battle. I refilled the rinse pan with clean water because little feet collect grass, dirt, and whatever mysterious substances Oklahoma grows in the yard. They rinse their feet before diving in. That’s the rule. I enforce it like TSA.
Act I: Yesterday, the moment the pool filled, both boys stripped naked and dove in like two feral otters returning to the wild.
We dragged the little Jungle Gym over so they could slide straight into the pool.
My grandsons are not spoiled — they require things.
I wanted pictures without tiny bare butts, so I finally convinced them to put on little undershorts. Papaw kept refilling the pool as they splashed out half the water.
Teamwork.
Act II: This morning as I finally sat down with my cold coffee (because hot coffee is for people without toddlers) and tried to check my email.
The internet wouldn’t connect.
Oh no.
I went to troubleshoot the router… except the router was missing.
I followed the wires like a crime scene investigator and found it under the sofa, unplugged, disconnected, and looking traumatized.
How did it get under there?
Hmm.
Two little monkeys on the loose… mystery solved.
During the search, I also found the long lost binky stuck to the back of the couch like a fossil.
Lovely.
Then Van walked in.
“Where’s my deodorant? I left it by my chair.”
Yes. Because that’s where deodorant belongs. Not in the bathroom cabinet like civilized humans.
We searched until we found it — inside his boot.
Apparently it grew legs and walked there.
Act III: I put the boys down for a nap, Van went to gas up the four wheeler, and I started cleaning the house.
Little did I know…
They woke up early, found Papaw’s giant bottle of Gold Bond powder, and made it snow in the living room.
A blizzard.
A whiteout.
A full scale powderpocalypse.
Every inch of the living room was dusted — Van’s boots, his recliner, the floor, the boys themselves. Their hair, faces, and clothes looked like they’d been caught in a cocaine raid on Cops.
I tossed them in the bathtub, scrubbed them down, then sent them outside to Papaw and the pool while I shoveled the living room.
Act IV: Van took Captain Chaos somewhere, so it was just Sir WhatTheHeck and me.
We rode the four wheeler, and when we got off, Sir WhatTheHeck pointed to the exhaust pipe and said,
“That’s really hot, Mimom.”
I said, “Oh goodness, yes it is. DO NOT TOUCH IT.”
So naturally…
He touched it.
Fifteen popsicles later (probably more), he felt better.
It kept his finger cool and his mind off the burn.
Yes, it blistered right up.
Poor little Sir WhatTheHeck
By bedtime, the boys were clean, fed, powdered down (again), and finally calm.
I wasn’t.
I sat there with my cold coffee, my living room smelling like menthol snowdrifts, my router traumatized under the sofa, Van’s deodorant still suspiciously warm from its time in the boot, and Sir WhatTheHeck eating his sixteenth popsicle like it was doctor prescribed.
And I thought:
Grandparents don’t need vacations.
We need medals.
Big shiny ones.
With hazard pay.
But then Sir WhatTheHeck crawled into my lap, wrapped his little blistered hand around my arm, and whispered,
“I love you, Mimom.”
And just like that…
I’d do the whole circus again tomorrow.
