Last weekend was kind of a big deal. I had my kids. Joel had his daughter, Liza. We threw them all together into a big simmering pot of let's-figure-it-out stew.
Liza isn't my kid, so it feels strange to blog about her, but I doubt anyone will mind me saying that I REALLY dig that girl. We hit it off immediately, what with her being a ten-year-old foodie and us sharing an undeniable urge to pester her father with our favorite cheesy top-40 radio station. One-Oh-Seven-Point-Five! Portland's Party Hits! When the plastic bag song comes on, we crank it up and sing along until we can see the cliched Whil E. Coyote steam start coming out of Joel's ears.
[That song has too many metaphors in it. First I'm supposed to feel like a plastic bag, then a house of cards, then I'm six feet under and then I'm exploding like a firework? That's just lyrical whiplash right there.]
I think it's also safe to say that the rapture is mutual. Liza calls me "Blondie" and she paints me pictures and most of the time if the given the chance, she'd rather hitch a ride with me than her father.
Of course, I can't take full credit for our easy courtship. Much of it can simply be attributed to my having the vagina upgrade. We're part of the same club, so that helps grease any wheels that might have otherwise been squeaky.
It also helps that my children adore her. I knew they would, but it surprised me how quickly they started asking WILL LIZA BE THERE? WHEN CAN LIZA COME OVER? Here I was, all worried about maintaining my kids' personal space within their home and they couldn't wait to share it with Liza and Joel.
So Friday night was a very special occasion. Not only did we go swimming in the hot tub, dance our badonkas off to Just Dance II, mow down a broiled salmon dinner and watch The Fantastic Mr. Fox* together in a pile on the couch, but we celebrated our new venture in a most spectacular fashion. Joel gave a rousingly good champagne/Kool-aid toast to a year of sundays.
That night was another first because Joel and Liza were still here when Dave came over to kiss the kids goodnight.
The baldman met Dave. Dave met the baldman.
They shook hands. Dave hung out with Alex for a few minutes (Genoa had already fallen asleep on my lap) and that band-aid got ripped off quite neatly.
We enjoyed our delicious cheese and bread atop a double decker bus and then we all piled in the car and headed for Joel's band practice. I had never seen him play before so this was quite the panty-twist for me.
(And by panty-twist, I mean HOLY HOTNESS BATMAN!)
Of course after a few hours of hanging out, the kids got bored, so I took them all home, made them a pasta dinner and folded approximately 14 loads of laundry while they all played Wii. This is how much I love that bald drummer boy right there: I do all his laundry. And I love every minute of it.
Yes, I am aware it's not 1965 anymore, which is why I'm also okay sharing with you that by the time Joel's band practice was over, it was WAY too late to drive all the way back into Portland to get his car. Especially considering that all of us had to be up early the next morning.
So he and Liza spent the night.
Before you freak out, let me make this as clear as I can. I put my children to sleep in their own beds. Then I found Liza some PJ's (I do her laundry too, so that wasn't a stretch) and she slept in my bed. Joel slept on the couch. I slept with Genoa.
There was no hanky. Or panky. We still haven't so much as locked lips in front of the kids.
(Although there may have been some hand-holding.) (GASP!)
Sunday morning I got up early and made muffins for everyone and we all raced around getting ready for the day. I'm a little bit afraid to share how I felt about all of this because it's way too ridiculous and schmoopy. The spot in my heart that's reserved for warm Sunday mornings where I make a pot of coffee for a man I adore and the children wake up with crazy hair and bad breath and they fight about why they can't play Wii while they wander about asking for breakfast and complaining about getting their hair brushed?
I know it's too soon to be having these thoughts and before you worry I'm getting ahead of myself, I promise that intellectual me is a cold, calculating, standoffish criminal who laughs in the face of love and all its dangerous trappings.
My heart has never felt so full.
*How can George Clooney still be hot when he's a CARTOON?!