High school golf is over.
This means that we no longer have to set our alarms, so that we can get the boy on a 5 AM bus for a golf tournament. The joy I feel about THAT is equivalent to the joy one would feel when she has an ingrown toenail cut out by the foot doctor. It just feels better instantly, as the pain evaporates, doesn’t it? But then the boy threw a monkey wrench into our second day of Golf Freedom, when he announced last night, “I’m meeting some kids at the coffee shop at 6:30 AM. It’s Jake’s birthday, and we’re all going for bagels.”
So there was THAT to get through this morning, which turned out fine, because I had to teach PE at 8:15 today anyway. And? For the record? I think Jake needs to reconsider things for his next birthday, and just invite everyone out for 6:30 PM pizza.
But yes. The boy finished up his fall golf season this last weekend, with a trip to state golf. He played some of his best golf ever there, over the course of three full days, but he didn’t manage to snag a trophy. No matter. His mama loves him anyway, and she clapped like a raging lunatic every evening when he texted her his daily golf score.
And frankly, I am thrilled that golf practice is no longer a real thing at our house, because we are all four back at our dinner table. Between working fifty to fifty-five hours every week at the golf course AND THEN practicing golf after school, the boy became a stranger around here this summer. I felt like I needed to put mints on his bedroom pillow and leave a card with our WiFi password on it on his nightstand, exactly like we would do for a guest who stayed with us. We knew we HAD another son; we just never SAW him. It has been perfectly lovely to have him at our dinner table again this week, sharing about his experiments in chemistry lab and giving us the lowdown on all of his teachers and classes. Thing 2 has been fascinated with the lab stories, as he asks every night, “Did you blow anything up, Bubbie? Did anything EXPLODE?!” And then Thing 2 kind of holds his breath in excited anticipation, because a giant explosion, involving fireballs the size of Chevy Suburbans, is kind of his love language.
But lo! Not long before school started, the boy and Thing 2 and I all went golfing together, which is to say the boy and Thing 2 golfed, while I rode in the golf cart with them and sipped my lemonade. We had such a fun time, just the three of us together, hanging out.
THE BOY: “My putter.”
THING 2: “I don’t know, Bubbie. I overshot the green again, and I’ve got one helluva putt coming up. Is this the type of golf course that frowns on you smacking the ball with a baseball bat? I need to get a little distance here, or I’ll never make par.”
Afterward, we joined Hubs at his favorite restaurant for lunch, which is the gas station. Yes… you read that right. Hubs’ favorite place to eat in town is inside the gas station, where they serve a mean chili dog and grape Slushie. I believe the term you’re looking for is HIGH CLASS and also REFINED and maybe even THEY MUST VACATION ON NANTUCKET FOR THE SUMMER, IN THEIR VINEYARD VINES SHIRTS. Clearly, we are your people, and others want to be us.
This went down as a powerfully fine day, minus the fact that Thing 2 had a hard shell taco at the gas station (because taco? Cheeseburger? Mini pizza? Nachos with liquid cheese? Chili dogs? They have something for everyone there!), and he wiped his greasy hands on my shirt by mistake. This shirt is now considered to be my WORK OUTSIDE shirt, as well as my CAMP ON THE MOUNTAIN shirt.
Y’all have a happy Wednesday evening.