The weekend celebrating labor (oh, is that not what we were doing? I think I still need to Wikipedia this holiday) was full of partying well past  Addison’s 8 p.m. bedtime. My parents were out of town and my brother and sister-in-law accompanied us to most of our hang outs, so our babysitters were spoken for. Rude. The peanut was in our possession through all of our wilding.

Friday Clayton had to work a high school football game. We thought we had time to sneak in a quick dinner before he had to leave, but that time flew by and I was left widowed at a table with our 13-month old. I love her, but she doesn’t exactly reciprocate the sarcastic banter to which I am so accustomed in Friday night conversation. She also ate all of my soup.

I am really ramping up the campaign to become the Fun Parent (this is a hopeless pursuit, I’m well aware), so even though it was coming up on bottle thirty, we hit the play area at the mall for about 20 minutes. I am so fun! So fun that I follow on Addison’s heels, body check the older kids roughhousing in our vicinity, and re-direct her from any apparatus higher than six inches off the ground.

Saturday I lost my mind for a bit, and then we had my brother and SIL over because 1. I’d made pulled pork earlier in the week and had some left = no cooking/buying dinner, 2. Hanging out with them is just about as comfortable as hanging out by ourselves but with four extra hands to tackle a sprinting Addison and 3. I don’t feel that bad if I haven’t cleaned the bathroom.

Uncle T needed a knowledgeable consultant for his fantasy draft.

Uncle T needed a knowledgeable consultant for his fantasy draft.

We spent Sunday running around as usual–Clayton had an early rehearsal at church, I drove a sleeping Addison across the city and back before the service, and we had a family lunch at my Grandma’s house. It’s been several years since the fam has had a chubby baby to fawn over, so most of our gatherings morph into the Addison show. This was no exception, and we spent a good hour sitting in a circle just watching that kid waddle from person to person, cell phone to cell phone, dirty shoe to dirty shoe. I felt sort of guilty, but then I decided that everyone should be thanking me for letting them spend their Sunday in such an awesome fashion. Girlfriend is more entertaining than any Bravo rerun airing at 2 p.m. on a weekend.

That night we met up with friends to check out a Labor Day boat parade and fireworks show. Thankfully our babies didn’t burst into tears at the fireworks, but there was some upper arm clinging from Max and wide eyed Mama reaching from Addison. They got over it pretty quickly once the “house band” started up. Unfortunately, the band had mistakenly grabbed their Rock Band video game controllers–the mini piano with a shoulder strap cannot be a real thing–instead of their actual instruments, but they played enough catchy Third Eye Blind so that most people didn’t notice. Also, PSA: drunk women, don’t try to dance with our children.

A C mark max fireworks

A Nat fireworks

One of the many, many ways that life has changed since we said goodbye to the DINK lifestyle (Dual Income, No Kids…saw it on Facebook), is football season. I didn’t realize how dysfunctional game day would look until we attempted to host a little cook out/football party for FSU’s first game Monday night.

Forcibly restraining her arms for one picture with the bow.

Forcibly restraining her arms for one picture with the bow.

Prior to the nugget, we’d cozy up in our booth at a sports bar a half hour before the game, choose which draft we’d be toasting or crying into for the next three hours, and that would be that. Maybe we’d get some queso at halftime, but the general equation was simple enough.

My how times change. Monday, right around kickoff, there were three babies under two toddling around directly in front of the t.v., one deciding to drag a dining room chair across the tile drowning out any hope of hearing pre-game commentary. Not long after, the microwave was beeping to alert me the water for Addison’s bottle was ready, friends were trying to gather their stuff and head home with their infant, and my best friend was trying to fashion a makeshift crib in our master bedroom with extra pillows and blankets.

It was an interesting first quarter.

Our childless FSU friends joined us, undoubtedly for the only time, and sat quietly amid the diapered chaos.

In direct contrast to the clanging and banging of the first half, once the kids went to bed, it was an exercise in vocal self restraint. No cheers or jeers could rise above a whisper for fear of waking the tiny scream machines. We’d dimmed the lights to help the kiddos unwind during bottle time, creating a soft, romantic hue enjoyed by the 9 adults gathered around the flat screen.

Despite the garnet-tinted awkwardness, it ended up being a pretty fun night with old and new friends, capped off with a big, fat W: a Well slept baby. Kidding, FSU shook the dust off and Jameis Winston made us cry happy tears of hopeful non-Manuel/Weatherford/Rixness. We’re Miley-level* desperate for a QB worth the hype. Fingers crossed, hips a’twerkin’!

Happy Two More Months ‘Til Fall in Florida!

*Last week, like the good mom blogger I am (gag), I penned An Open Letter to Miley. I was never sure about posting it, mainly because every other site across this party in the U-S-A had written about it. I decided against it because by that logic, I’d have to write An Open Letter to Katy Perry, An Open Letter to Lady Gaga, An Open Letter to Topanga Lawrence for that Maxim Cover, An Open Letter to Des the Bachelorette for Giving All Three Suitors the Key to the Fantasy Suite, and so on and so on. Ain’t nobody got time or enough twerking jokes for that. Clearly, if I don’t want my daughter to grow up in an overtly sexual, please-stop-dry-humping-that-other-woman’s-husband, um-dude-why-are-you-letting-this-bikini-clad-confused-twentysomething-dry-hump-you society, it’s time to move. To the 1940′s. But you can be SURE that Addison’s Mama and Daddy would have gotten one glimpse of that rehearsal and pulled that child off the stage by her outstretched tongue. And God help Mr. Thicke if Miley had Tony for an older brother. The end.

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