And I didn’t get any pictures.
So the story is this:
This week, T was trying to get his friend to go with him to the movies for his birthday. I’ve prepped the kids–nothing big for b-days. Nothing big for Christmas. T was primed, if a little disappointed, about cake & ice cream at home, watching his birthday gift on Friday night (The Dark Knight. Mmmmmmmm…..) with his family and a movie with his buddy on Saturday.
His buddy couldn’t make it.
I felt like crap.
I called up my stepmom and said, “Yeah–maybe you guys could take him out to the movies…just something to make it special, you know?”
Stepmom said, “Surprise party! Nothing big–we’ll just get the kids (cousins & cousin-like-people) to my house and have cake and ice cream there! We’ll take him to dinner, you guys sneak in and we’ll tell him Mate’s there to fix the computer. He’ll love it!”
Well *I* loved it. I loved it a lot. Big T would be so surprised. I checked to see where Big T was during this conversation–he was at the computer with the headset on. AWESOME. Nothing could disturb him short of nuclear attack.
I continued with the party plans with my mom, hung up, turned around, and ran smack into my gigantical, maniacally grinning son. Literally. I almost fell on my ass.
“What’s my surprise, mom.
I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t fight it, I couldn’t combat it. A GINORMAL shit-eating grin plastered itself to my face and I said, “Nothing. Nothing. It’s nothing. No surprise. Nothing big. Just Friday. You’re ready for Friday. Just talking to grandma…”
Yeah–I managed to keep THAT up for two days. And then, after the conversation which my mom finished up with, “And if the surprise is blown, I’ll know who to blame!” it all fell to crap.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was pretty sure the jig was already up. “Hey, Big T–Grandma and Grandpa are going to take you out to dinner…”
“And when I’m done there will be a surprise party, right?”
“Nope nope nope nope nope nope nope…” Okay… you can only do that for so long before you cave like a cardboard condo, and the whole thing comes spilling out. Followed by, “And if you tell grandma that I suck this badly, I’ll kill you. And THEN I’ll disown you.”
“Grandma will never forgive me for as long as I live.”
Who was I kidding? The kid looks just like me. He’s got my eyes. He’s got my freckles. He’s got my shit eating grin. He’s got my complete inability to keep anything resembling a secret.
My parents walked into the house full of people grimly, and my mom said sarcastically, “Some surprise, Amy!”
I turned around and slugged my oldest, my darling, my baby, in his solid bicep. “Thanks a lot, Big T!”
“OW! Mom! What’d I do?”
“Don’t blame him, you’re the one who couldn’t keep a secret!” (Well, mom, you knew that about me, right?)
“I tried! Dammit, I tried!!!”
Apparently he made it all the way through dinner before he sprung that (hereditary) shit-eating grin. I’ll NEVER live that down. And I think I sprained my wrist.
Happy Birthday, my beloved child. You’ve made my life interesting, warm, rich, and wonderful–and, believe it or not, full of surprises.