Returned to Northern Cal this weekend to pick Mark up from camp. I thoroughly enjoyed my carefree, child-free week, but I also missed my little man a lot. It's been almost three years since I lived alone in the house, and it felt kinda strange to be home when he wasn't.
I certainly had a blast while he was gone. I saw two movies, went to one concert and one extended happy hour. I didn't cook once--turning on the coffee maker was the closest I got to actually using a kitchen appliance. I'm not proud of myself--I even dined on frozen yogurt and movie popcorn one night, just because I could.
I slept in late every day, because there was no one else to cajole awake or prepare meals for. It was just me--wake up, shower, out the door, arrive at work. No side trips to school or daycamp, just straight to work. It was pretty cool.
But like I said, I did miss my little guy, and I was anxious to see him again. He stepped off the bus looking sleepy and unfortunately dressed in a red t-shirt, green sweat pants, and shoes without shoelaces. A mesh laundry bag was slung over his shoulder, and his open shoes flapped as he walked--he looked like he was returning from a week in jail, not camp.
"Where are your shoelaces?" I asked him in the car.
"We had a treasure hunt," he said. "They needed shoelaces, so I gave them mine."
Kim and I congratulated him on being a team player, but when I asked what happened to them after that, he simply said, "I lost them." When we got home, Kim didn't even get out of the car--I unloaded his bags, and she drove off to get him new shoelaces.
Once inside, I kissed his head, and recoiled in horror. "Your scalp's bleeding!" I shouted, and dug through his hair to find where the red splotches ended. He shook me off, explaining it wasn't blood, just red dye left over from crazy hair day.
He ran off to play with Hannah and Nick. I dragged his duffel bag to the washing machine--I would wash his clothes, repack them, and be ready to go for the next camp Monday morning. I expected a new wardrobe, like last year, when Mark traded away all his clothes (that's what he told me, anyway). He made out pretty well--traded some old diabetes walk shirts for Pirates of the Caribbean shirts, and a very snazzy Beatles shirt.
What I wasn't expecting to see was a nearly-empty duffel bag. Where were the new clothes? Hell, where were the OLD clothes?
Mark said he'd lost them.
"What do you mean, you LOST them?" I sent SEVEN complete sets of clothes--shirts, shorts, underwear, socks, two pair of jeans. I fished around in the duffel--there were exactly three pair of jeans and one pair of shorts. That's it. I'd only packed clothes I didn't expect to ever see again, but I thought I'd see new clothes in their place. (He was very excited about a new pair of black jeans he'd acquired. "No one else claimed them, so I did," he said, proudly.)
Luckily, I'd planned ahead, and brought clean clothes for Sunday. (I figured his would be filthy--and I'm sure they are, wherever they may be.) I didn't bring pajamas, though, so he was thrilled to sleep in his clothes that night. Only 8-year-old boys are excited to sleep in the same dirty clothes they've worn all day (and probably most of the week).
That evening, Tim and Kim went to a party up the street. I stayed home with the kids, eating pizza and playing video games. Shortly after I put the kids to bed, Tim came home. He didn't like the drinks at the party, so he made his own and returned to the party. He came back 45 minutes later to refresh his drink, and take a bottle of tequila back to the party. He came another hour after that, this time bearing food and a good buzz.
"I brought you dessert!" he said a little too loudly, and held a plate out to me. He pointed at the little puff pastries and chocolates, then frowned, examining the plate closely. "Maybe it's not dessert--I thought these were little pastries, but it looks like there's corn on them. So maybe it's not dessert. But it's probably still good--just eat them first, and pretend like it's not dessert." He rambled on like a 15-year-old after his first beer.
He sat and talked to me for a good half-hour after that, and I told him he's the worst party guest ever, clearly one with A.D.D. "What do you do when you go to parties that aren't at the end of your block?" I asked. "Do you actually talk to other guests, instead of your sister?"
"I don't go to parties unless they're on my block," he said, and then he left. I wasn't worried--I knew he'd be back again soon. He returned shortly after midnight with Kim in tow. The dancing had started, and she didn't want to leave, but he'd made his last trip home for the night.
Needless to say, they slept in a little later this morning. We eventually packed up the car and headed to the beach. Even Mark, who splashed through the surf in a bathing suit he borrowed from Nicholas, because of course, his suit was lost somewhere between camp and who-knows-where...
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