You're really into balloons lately. I mean, really. Currently, our Walmart is full of mylar balloons that advertise their clearance racks. No matter how many times I tell you that those things you love are called "balloons," you insist on calling them, "ups." So while we shop for groceries, you point out every balloon you see and yell "Ups!" Your name for them makes more sense than the actual name, but as your dad is fond of saying, the English language often makes no sense.
Last night, we drove into town to meet Aunt Brynn and Uncle Nate, because they wanted to take us out to dinner in honor of Dad's birthday. Since we were running about 20 minutes early, I thought we'd stop into the party store and buy you an "ups." We could say it was for your dad's birthday, but you and I would know the truth. Lo and behold, the store sold Pablo-shaped balloons. Just what every 37 year-old man wants on his birthday: a 2-foot inflatable blue Hispanic penguin in a beanie.
As it turns out, you like ribs. The table next to us hollered that they admired your technique.
The highlight of dinner for me was watching Nate try to teach you to high-five and then pump your fist and say "Yes!" I'm not sure there's ever been a more adorable thing in the history of things.
On the road after dinner, we got caught in a bit of a snowstorm, and it took us an hour and a half to get home. Your dad's truck got stuck on one side of the circular driveway, and then the Subaru got stuck on the other. We put you to bed, then went outside to work on getting the Subaru unstuck. The TV producer in me wished she'd had a camera on a crane to get the overhead shot of your dad shaking his fist at the heavens and shouting "Enough already!!!" At one point, while your dad was pushing on the hood of the car, I accidentally gunned the car in drive instead of reverse. Thank God for the two feet of snow in the driveway, or this could have been That Birthday When Mom Ran Over Dad.
Finally, around 11pm, with the help of nothing but angry will, brute force and a mouthful of dirty words, your dad managed to get the car turned around.
Counting Dad's snowed-in truck, the current count of broken-down or unusable cars in our yard comes to four. There goes my invitation to join the Junior League.
In other news, we have decided to reschedule your dad's birthday for some time in June. We'll mark it on the calendar as Dad's Birthday: Observed.
Love,
Mom
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