I’m relieved to share that the air conditioning was repaired at minimal cost, the party was a hit, Monkey finally broke his fever and we all slept happily through the night.
I have about eleventy million pictures from the last few days of the insanity leading up to and culminating in the boys’ first birthday party, but I’m too
lazy busy hanging out with my friends and family here in Texas to sort through them.
I’ll get to them this week before I leave for Kansas City, but I had to share today’s organized chaos with you.
We were so proud of ourselves for surviving yesterday, for juggling 24 kids, 14 adults, a swimming pool, a bunch of food and a piñata without any broken bones or visits from family services, I guess we figured we’d celebrate today by cramming at least half as many people into the kitchen with two giant pans filled with boiling oil.
It’s this kid’s fault. He asked for fried chicken and fixins, and that’s what he got.
I made at least three jokes about cutting the cheese, and he didn’t get any of them.
Anyway, we started with a healthy breakfast.
We bought Wal-mart out of chicken pieces, shortening, peanut oil, and potatoes and made a grand mess out of the kitchen while frying, boiling and mashing up lunch.
Behold the fried chicken breast. Soaked in buttermilk, battered and fried to golden crispy perfection.
Pop provided home-grown tomatoes and cucumbers, a healthy compliment to our starchy grease-fest.
My aunt found some cool cups with name tags on them.
After ensuring that the men and children were in a semiconscious post-smorgasbord state, the ladies began to sort through my grandmother’s tin of buttons, collected by four generations of women who knew their way around a sewing machine. These days, we’re handier with Cricuts than Singers.
While we were raiding the buttons for scrapbooking spare parts, my aunt began to nod off at the table. For some reason, my mom asked my grandmother about a computer mouse she had loaned her.
My grandmother leaned over my snoozing aunt to peer through the curtained French doors into the den, and after noting that Monkey had fallen asleep in his play pen, declined to go inside to get the mouse.
“Ok,” my mom said. “Don’t let me forget the mouse is in the den.”
My formerly slumped and sleeping aunt startled at the word mouse, jumped up and yelled, “OH SHIT!”
It took us a minute to realize she hadn’t suddenly developed Tourette’s, but had overheard wrong that there was a mouse in the room with the baby!
Now, my grandmother, who used to scold us for saying the word “fart,” or for even being so bold as to pass gas in her presence, didn’t bat an eyelash at my aunt’s profane exclamation, and instead began cracking up with the rest of us.
Where has my grandmother’s sense of propriety gone?
I blame this guy.