I should thank you

Some weekends are a blur, bouncing between social, parental and extended family responsibilities can leave you breathless in your front hallway, 12 year-old dog looking at you, random sock in mouth, like she has never seen you before.

This past weekend was like that. A Friday night embarking on a hilarious writing project with an old friend that started productively and ended with us both slightly tipsy playing Xbox like we were teenagers trying to out fart each other.

Saturday was grocery shopping, a grand soup making adventure that included ingredients from various leftovers in the fridge to make room for the new groceries. A haphazard lunch, a journey outdoors to run out my sons and my dog, and dinner (fajitas) followed by a cheesy but perfectly acceptable movie on Saturday night.

The boys on our fake winter walk:

Sunday, as it has been for the previous nine weeks, was the mad dash to a ski hill where I proceeded to run over my youngest son as he disembarked off the chair lift. There were no broken bones but lots of tears and lots of apologetic guilt. Forgiven, we drove home, started in on the laundry, ate a soup dinner (strategic!), did some homework, did some more laundry and set up the school bags for the following morning.  

Very familiar to many I am sure.  

However, wedged in between all of this was a special event. My wife, bless her soul, came to my friend’s house to pick me up on Saturday morning. Head groggy from the beers and fingers gnarled from the Xbox playing (yes I am 42), we headed to the car to drive back home, but first had to do one little thing. We strapped the boys into their respective belts and sat down in the front seat. I handed Hud two pieces of paper with some pictures and some text on the top.  

Hey Hud can you read this to your brother?  I asked casually. Sure dad he replied.  

He read the big, bold letters to his brother.

Hey Tasman. Hey Hud.  Do you want to go to Mexico?  

What came next was completely unexpected. Realizing the pictures were of a all-inclusive resort in Cozumel, Mexico, Hud became overwhelmed with utter and complete joy and began crying and sputtering out his thanks in a staccato, barely legible, thankyousomuch, thankyousomuch, thankyousomuch!  

Tasman, a bit confused thinking his brother, his idol, his god, was upset at something, started patting him on the back until finally Hudson bellowed out at the top of his lungs right in his brother’s eye.

Tasman, we are going to Mexico!  

Tasman caught on to the best of his five year old ability and started yelling and laughing and giggling while Steph crawled into the backseat to try and calm Hudson down. It was pure magic.  

Sure I am in public relations and am very familiar with the use of hyperbole, but this moment has now settled in to the top five moments of my entire life. I will never, ever forget how quickly the car filled up with my son’s happiness and how thankful he was when he truly didn’t need to be. It reminded me that we have done a good job managing our boys’ sense of entitlement, especially when they are surrounded by kids who go to Aspen at Christmas, Turks and Caicos on March Break and Naples for Easter and barely blink when an Ipad 3 comes walking in the door for getting a C in Math.  

Sure, that is my own envy creeping a bit, but thankfully I am the jaded one. And my two boys, the earnest loves of my life, still can be truly blown away by a pool, a beach, free cherry slushes and a mediocre buffet dinner.

We leave in 19 days!

Yay buffet!