All’s Not Fair

The County Fair is in town.
When you live in a small town, the county fair is a pretty big deal. Everyone turns out for the Elvis impersonator and the funnel cakes. Last night was opening night, we went as a family to watch my daughter’s best friend perform in the pageant.
While we weren’t able to stay for the entire pageant, we were able to watch all of the littlest girls perform their talents, and we were almost killed by the cuteness of it all. Seriously -a teensy cheerleader dressed in Mickey Mouse colors shaking her pom-poms and little bum to “Hey Mickey”? It nearly did me in.
Adorableness oozed from the stage… adorableness and rain water.

After we left the pageant, we went to look at exhibits in the exhibit building. It’s one of my favorites. I love to see crochet goodies, canned goods, fresh bread, sewn crafts, photography (I think they should have a “cell phone photography” category), and even cupie doll collections.
“Look at dis pumpkin!” My son called out, “It’s fat like Mom!”
Aaaand we’re still stuck on the Fat Mom stage.

I did see that someone entered a craft under the name …

I’m not sure if someone really HAS this name or if they were joking. But I will tell you that I was once told of a man named Justin. Last name? Case.
We stopped by to see some of the livestock, and I did my best to keep the kids from feeding their glow stick to the lambies and goats.

After snapping a picture, of course.
We found some pigs that snuggled so close we almost had to avert our eyes. Scandalous!

Speaking of names, I should tell you that a few pigs away from the naked cuddling pigs, we ran into Bacon and Pork Chop.

It reminded me of the pig my brother once had. His name was Jimmy. Last name? Dean.

We left the fair around 9:30 pm, and all of us were happy to get home. I wasn’t feeling very well, and I had been hit in the middle of the exhibition building with some REALLY painful Braxton Hicks contractions. It wasn’t cute.
The boy must not have been feeling very well either because he woke up sick last night. I cleaned everything up and sent him to bed with a bowl.
That was at 3 am. Sometime after 4, I finally fell back asleep. I still wasn’t feeling all that great. I had nausea and insomnia bouncing around me… no matter how much I tossed or turned I was out of luck. I finally went to the couch with a book and thirty minutes later: I was asleep.
My husband came in the living room this morning and asked if everything went all right last night (the man is not exactly the one to rely on when it comes to cleaning up sickness… because he’ll just make a bigger mess -if you know what I mean).
“Yeah,” I said.
“Why is Trenton asleep on the floor in the bathroom?” He asked.
“He is? I have no idea… I put him back in bed.”
But I had to smile.
My daughter and husband have a special bond. He just GETS her and she just GETS him. They even sleep in the same position -the same one my husband has been sleeping in since he was just a baby.
I would sometimes scold my daughter for something and my husband would pull me aside and say, “She wasn’t meaning to do that, she’s just feeling…”
It was like the two of them spoke this silent language of understanding and I was left in the fog. Their relationship has always been special.
When my son was placed in my arms, I suddenly SPOKE the language of understanding. From the moment he was born, I GOT that child. And he got me. When my husband scolds him for something, I can pull him aside and say “He wasn’t meaning to do that, he’s just feeling…”
And there’s times when my son senses my feelings and gives me a well-timed kiss or compliment. It’s really neat.
But he was asleep on the bathroom floor. I didn’t teach him that. I never told him, “Trenton, when you’re not feeling good you should curl up on the cold hard bathroom floor because it will make you feel better.”
My mom STILL wonders why on earth she found me on the bathroom floor so many times. Even I don’t know. The cold hard tile made my tummy feel better? I don’t know.
All I know is when I saw this, I melted a little. He GETS it.

Please forgive me for breaking my own blogging rule which is “never post a picture with a hint of a toilet.” But the image of my son curled up on the robe I was wearing when I birthed him is just sweet to me. It’s one of those gross mom things.
But I do love and appreciate that boy who will be turning 4 on Sunday.
On that note, isn’t four years a little long to keep a robe that you gave birth in? I think I’d better buy a new one.