I spent a wonderful – REALLY wonderful – long weekend at my dad and stepmom’s place. It’s 11ish acres. I wanted to show up and help out with all of their ongoing, numerous, WAY ambitious projects and just spend kid-free time with them.

It worked out exactly like that.

We had considered building what my dad called a ‘dog run.’ But after further questioning, it became evident that his definition of a ‘dog run’ meant fencing in a few ACRES and building large gates so the tractor could get in and mow in there. This was not a surprise. When he had said a few years ago that he wanted a dog house, one day we showed up and there was a one-room, gorgeous, big enough for several humans, LOG CABIN. With windows and a front porch and furniture inside. And that was the dog house. They think… big.

Which is a lot of fun. And a lot of work. And they’re more than up to finishing all of the stuff they dream up without my coming and getting in the way, but they were nice about it. My stepmom never stops moving. She is a blur of hard work and amazing cooking and I really don’t know how she does it. I watched, but still, I have no idea.

The first ‘work’ morning I assisted my dad in various vehicle repairs. “Assisted” being a really nice way of saying that I stood around and made a mess of stuff. I tore off the cover of a carburetor and my dad said – in a voice full of wonder and patience – “wow. you broke the very first thing you touched.”

It prompted him to half jokingly tell me many times over the next days “don’t break this” – after handing me something that was fairly indestructible. Like a bolt. Or a nut.

Then I managed to dump gasoline all over me. Twice. Maybe you knew that there would be gasoline in a carburetor but I did NOT, ‘kay? And I wanted a closer look. I smelled really fume-y all day.

I should explain that even though I’m 36, I will always call my father, “Daddy.” The reason for this is that HIS father, my grandfather, was always called “Dad.” So to say “Dad” refers to someone else completely and it would be very very weird for me to call my dad “Dad,” so I don’t. No one does.

Daddy took me out to his giant shop and said, “Let me show you all my Lucky Stuff.”  If you’ve ever met my dad, you’d know that this was your cue to get OUT of that shop. But I was there largely for the Quality Father Time, so I just took a step back out of arms reach and tried to be polite as he showed me a whole badger head that one of the dogs had brought him, a hummingbird nest, a ‘special’ snakeskin, and then I was thrilled when he couldn’t find his ‘dead bat.’ The man has a lucky dead bat. A small one. And it was missing. I was glad.

Daddy can fix anything. It might take some staring and some grunting. And some pacing. And countless trips into his ‘shop’ but it’ll get fixed. He got the four wheeler running again, after the new carburetor went in. And something called a Skag Turf Tiger, for which I will forever be grateful because that thing is FUN.

OH MY GOSH. Steering with levers. Speed. Mowing. Zero turn (geekwif!) capability and you just zoom off and have an adventure. Love that thing. Daddy soaked the carburetor on that one and… other stuff. I don’t know. Something about a hydraulic pump leak on the right side.

While he was doing all of that I got to mow. On a REAL. BIG. TRACTOR. A New Holland something or other. VERY BIG. Blue. Pretty, in a check out my tractor sort of way. (these details are all for you, geekwif. if i’m boring the rest of you to pieces, just skip it, i’ll never know.) I don’t know how many acres of pastures I mowed. But it took around five hours and I loved every minute of it. Well. Every minute except the one minute in which I ran over a pecan tree and then it came down and smacked me REALLY hard on the head. Which I deserved. But it still hurt. Actually, it still hurts. And I suspect that it was during those five hours that I got bit on the butt by something spider-like.

Lovely. 

I don’t know what it was or when it was, but it was um… truly awful and gross and I told my stepmom the next morning that if I died, she should just save the medical examiner some time by telling him to start by looking at my right butt cheek.

[Spoiler Alert: I didn't die. It was way painful for awhile and now it's fine.]

Then.

There was the Watching of the Rangers Losing The World Series, Game 6. Go ahead and thank God right now that you were not in my dad and stepmother’s living room when that happened. Go ahead. Praise Him for that. Because whoaaaaah. At one point i said to my father, “you are SO loving and patient and forgiving with the Real Live People in your life, but you’re WAY HARSH on athletes.”

My stepmother quietly said, “you should see him on the golf course.”

I’m glad I do not play golf. That night there was stomping. Swearing. Grunting. Coaching. Criticizing. Lots of sound effects. Stomping off to other rooms because it is all just SO unbearable.

It was kinda funny. Not that I was laughing. Nuh-uh. I was wrapped up to my nose in a Snuggie and keeping quiet and DEFINITELY. NOT. LAUGHING.

This was waaaaay too serious for that.

The next morning they dropped me off at a mall. I had my hair done. Which hurt, thanks to the sore spiderbite butt and the pecan tree/tractor injury. Then mom and LaLa met me there. I tried on a thousand and three dresses and had my surly picture taken in each and every one of them and I didn’t leave the mall until NINE hours later. But with a really pretty maid of honor dress. Navy.

Actually, I mighta bought two really pretty but different navy dresses, but I’m still not sure. I’ll know soon enough when one does or does not show up in the mail.

LaLa had an old school shoe salesman who looked like an elf fall all over her feet and give her the total Cinderella glass slipper treatment. Which was fine, but I didn’t like the way he was touching her leg. She didn’t notice. The three of us had a wonderful time, which i attribute to how fantastically funny and wonderful they both are to be around. Even for 9 hours in a mall.

THEN.

There was the Watching of the Rangers Losing the World Series, Game 7. Go ahead and thank God that you were not in my dad and stepmother’s living room when THAT happened. SERIOUSLY. GO ON, NOW. Write a psalm of thanksgiving real quick. GAH.

The next day my stepmom and I climbed VERY tall ladders and we caulked the siding and scraped paint up at the top of the gables, and repainted. I don’t know how tall that is. WAY. TALL. When caulking while way high up on a ladder, just go ahead and shove the paper towels in your bra to save you trips up and down the ladder. (But remember to take them OUT later if you don’t use them all. Because, um, yeah.)

I wanted to get my hands on the ‘thin set’ mortar stuff and work on the new shower my dad is putting in. And they let me. Fun!

And then we pruned all the trees and shrubs.  ALL.

And then the Cowboys were supposed to play. And… I asked Daddy if they were supposed to win. “Daddy. I NEED TO KNOW.” I couldn’t take 3 nights in a row of Painful Losses.

He gave his standard answer:

Sigh. “Well. It depends on which team shows up. Sometimes they’re great. And then sometimes…”

That was all I needed to hear. I took a bath and went to bed and did not hear the My Team is Losing and I Might LOSE IT TOTALLY, TOO, Noises, so I figured it was all going well.

They lost, of course, but he was so drained emotionally by the previous 2 nights’ losses that he sat and watched this loss in near-silence. How sad.  How very un-Daddy-like.

The next morning I trimmed his eyebrows. I’ve wanted to do that FOREVER. My stepmom made Egg In A Hole. My new fave. I bought star and heart cookie cutters just for this purpose.

They dropped me off at the airport and I got my standard Daddy hug. Whoooaaaah. Not that I’m complaining. My dad has a unique hug. It’s exceptionally sweet, but very fierce. He means well, but he crushes into you every last bit of otherwise possibly unexpressed affection. Emphasis on ‘crushes.‘

The lady behind me in line asked me if I was all right. She hadn’t seen the hug. She hadn’t even seen Daddy. She just said that my whole right ear was really red and scraped up and she wondered if I was okay.

“Oh yeah. My dad just hugged me on that side.”

“He’s a large man?” she asked.

“Nope. He just hugs… um… weird. Is it bleeding?” (perfectly reasonable question, and if you’ve ever been hugged by my dad you know what i mean.)

“No…”

I don’t suppose she’d understand. It’s a hard thing to explain. But I loved my weekend. And my family. And I wouldn’t take back even the painful sporting events. Or the hugs. Or any of it.

It was exactly the weekend I wanted. The weekend I so very much needed.

Maybe next time I go, we can build a “dog run.”

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