Today BF and I went to a Tweet-up in Killingworth, CT for brunch. The house was set back from the main road, off a typical New England dirt road, nestled in the plush foliage of summer. The yard, decorated with a simple stone path, was neatly cut and speckled with lawn chairs. All the tweeps brought delicious brunch dishes of fresh fruits and vegetables and freshly baked muffins and scones. I dare say it was perfect. I almost felt as if I should have been playing crocket while sipping a dry martini and laughing about the time I woke the cat up with the vacuum cleaner.
Even my minions were lavishing in the stereotypical New England afternoon, making chalk creations on the stone walkway and munching on scones with their feet up. It felt like a little piece of heaven in the midst of the chaos that is The Redneck Palace. So there we were, meeting new tweeps and enjoying good conversation when all of a sudden it happened…..the minions sprouted horns and once again became evil devil spawn. Oddly enough this coincided with the sudden opening up of the heavens in the form of rain when we were all ushered inside with our chairs and brunch fair in hand.
Have you ever been inside a house where young children don’t live? Remember that same house you praised yourself on before your maternal clock grabbed you by the nipples and said “It’s time dude, time to put those reproductive organs to good use.” Well, that’s where we found ourselves. Stuck. With the devil spawn. Thankfully
or maybe not there was a clear path from the living room to the kitchen that acted as a launching strip for my suddenly possessed children. Within minutes of coming inside both kids were running at mock speed from one room to another with deafening screams and giggles exploding from their mouths. The coffee table in the living room, which oddly resembled a long board surf board, suddenly became a platform for the kids to reenact Shamu moves as they slid in on their bellies.
sprinted ran back and forth, you could see muffin crumbs flying up behind them like Pig Pen. I could see the faces of the hosts look on in horror as my two shit heads minions threatened to dismantle the cat tree and turn the porcelain pig into cat litter. Suddenly I could feel the other tweeps in the room bare down on me with burning eyes as the walls start caving in on me and all I want to do is sit in a corner in my oh so familiar straight jacket as I cry and rock myself into oblivion.
All I want to do is grab one kid under each arm, grab the car keys from BF, run out the door, tell BF to find a ride home, and peal off into the day with both kids shoved into the trunk. Just as these thoughts filled my head, Theo calmly
this is never good walked up to the surf board coffee table….and sat down on the end of it. Up flew the other end along with a tweeps drink. Thank fucking lord she knew us priviously and has bared witness the destruction that my kids induce on unsuspecting houses. The beautifully crafted white sangria thankfully not a staining drink became air borne, vaguely resembling fire works, and landed upside down on the thatched natural fiber rug. If this weren’t enough, Pheobe came along and spiked her blueberry they stain pecan french toast and spiked it jubilation.
Shortly there after I was fighting back tears and doing everything in my power to not answer the call of the wild and eat my kids. By then Pheobe was crying and asking for a nap and Theo was confused by my frustration. We left shortly there after, and I held back tears the entire way home. I couldn’t wait to get my two little demons home back into the safety of our own home. Where they could run around like chickens with their heads cut off and practice taking over small countries. I was convinced that I would never be able to bring them out into public around ‘normal’ people again.
By the time we got home my Twitter timeline was filled with tweets about how great it was to meet BF and I….and surprisingly, the minions. A few even commented on me being a good mom.WAIT!!!! WHAT??? A ‘good’ mom? Are these people mocking me? Surely they saw the crazed look in my eye as I contemplated I selling the minions on Craig’s List. But then it dawned on me….I’m pretty sure everyone there was a parent. But everyone there had kids…that weren’t ‘kids’ anymore. Grown. Stories of UConn and grand kids had circulated while I was still able to pay attention. Stories that never revolved around potty training or sleepless nights. These people had all done this before…they were in fact seasoned professionals.
Those looks of horror and flames were actually looks of “Haha, been there, done that. Good luck little tweep.” Watching all these new tweeps sit around in khaki shorts, polo shirts, and *gasp* beautifully beaded necklaces gave me hope. It may take another 15-20 years, but I may actually be able to sit back and relax
in nice clothes even at a brunch some day. One can only hope.
So thank you new tweeps, for your hospitality, courtesy, and understanding. And an extra BIG thank you to all of you in the kitchen for laughing hysterically when I blurted out, “Moments like this are why some animals in the wild eat there kids!”