My mother-in-law’s in town.
While this strikes fear/rage/paranoia into the hearts of many a friend in regards to their own MILs, I, on the other hand, delight in her presence. Seriously. I adore her.
In addition to being able to chat it up with me for hours (much to the hubs’ chagrin), she’s a hoot to be around, she CLEANS (so that thing you’re doing is called, “dusting”?), plus, and this is a BIG PLUS, the kid thinks she’s more fun than a cardboard box. And if you know how much tykes love those darn boxes…
But when we get down to it, the best thing about grandma being here?
This past Saturday, the hubs and I took full advantage of it.
We had ourselves a little date night and took in a play. Although, since he’s technically IN the play, I guess it doesn’t really count as a true date night.
Shameless plug: www.caughttheplay.com
Definitions aside, what matters is that I got to spend a Saturday night out of the house, hanging with my guy. I even gussied myself up and everything. Wore makeup. Jewelry. Heels.
Frankly, I looked hot.
And since I didn’t take a photo of this rare state of being, you’ll just have to take my word for it. My neighbor, who didn’t even recognize me at first, commented on my awesomeness — which only got a tad disturbing when she wouldn’t stop gushing about my appearance, “No. Really. You should do this look more often. REALLY.”
Post-show, the hubs and I hung out with some of the cast as well as the producer and the playwright. We talked. And talked. And… well, we didn’t make it home until after 1 AM.
Unlike my last excursion (http://bit.ly/q231w8), I didn’t bring the pump with me — actually, I did, but I’d left it in the car and somehow trying to convince this group to come back with me while I did my business, didn’t seem quite the option — so by the time we arrived home, I couldn’t attach myself to the machine fast enough.
I finally fell asleep around 2:30am. Which, normally (read: pre-kid), suits me just fine. My preferred bedtime? Somewhere in the 1am-3am block.
I’m a nightowl. The kid, however, is not.
And yet, every week I make the mistake of thinking, “It’s the weekend. I can sleep in!” Funnily enough, and by that I mean, not funny at all, the kid does not share this philosophy.
So less than four hours after my head hit the pillow, I found myself stumbling about, making my way to a chatty, squealing, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little bugger, full of up and at ‘em (seriously, whose child is this?).
And even though I was paying the price for our late night date night… waking up to these eyes:
makes it worth it (except when it’s before the sun comes up, ‘cause that’s just wrong).
I groggily attempted to start my day, when it dawned on me. You know who else isn’t a nightowl?
Before I could take another step, she cheerfully swooped in, cuddled and then whisked the kid away. As their giggles and laughter filled the house, I crawled back into bed. I don’t know about sliced bread, but I can attest that my mother-in-law beats cardboard boxes any day.