One minute my heart was brimming with joy.
The next, it splintered into a million tiny pins, each stabbing me with such mercilessness I thought I’d be sick.
It’s Thanksgiving Day and I’m waiting for Cuy to return from his beach workout, a painful (for me) endeavor I chose to skip in order to get dinner organized and to pack because, tomorrow, when the kids fly home, Rob and I fly to Texas for his sister’s wedding. We’ve been going, going, going, since our trip to Virginia earlier this month and I plan to completely collapse on Monday when we get back.
Unless I have a Pilates class. Dammit. I think I have a Pilates class.
I’m also waiting for Case to wake up. It’ll be a while. He typically sleeps late and, when he’s angry with me, he sleeps later. On purpose.
Yes. He’s angry with me. But I’ll get to that.
I had a good time yesterday with my young men. Both needed gym bags so we hit Dick’s where yay, they each found one they liked, and Cuyler demonstrated his juggling skills.
After that minor bit of retail therapy, we all needed sugar. And caffeine. Me the most. I am exhausted from trying to keep up with Cuy’s exercise regimen. The Starbucks in Target was the only option, and it was there in the very, very, long, very, very, slow moving line that I was reminded how much my sons cannot stand to wait to order their overpriced concoctions never mind wait for them to be made.
It was when we were sitting at a table, waiting for them to call our names so we could retrieve our drinks, that I began to sense tension. Cuy was stone cold silent as he looked from the table to me while Case alternately scanned the three books he’d just purchased, talked about them, and brought the TV show they’re based on up on his phone in order to show us. I listened, I looked, I prayed. Come on with our order already! See, my son Casey doesn’t converse. With him, it’s a nonstop diatribe during which be barely draws breath. And no one can…