After being super busy at work all week, Husband’s team has a rugby tournament interstate, so we hauled along with him. We decided it would be worth the drive to hang out a little, and trade rain at home for rain somewhere else, and try our hands at other bmx races.
Sleeping in hotels is supposed to be fun, but when we are booking these crazy adventures, we forget that sleeping in hotels with our kids is sort of a chore. Pillow fights aside, bad pillows and poor mattresses, loudly random a/c units and wine in plastic or styrofoam cup-type chores.
Anyhoo, after braving the roads and the “how much longer ” s, the “he won’t give me” whatevers and the “he’s looking at me”s, we made it to our destination and had a fun time at the local track. Husband was busy with the team so we kept ourself busy at the park and at dinner. But today is Husband’s birthday, and it’s been a good day for him but a crappy birthday. He won’t have a confortable night sleep all weekend; he doesn’t get to sleep in the same bed as his lovely wife – though he does get a bed to himself; he doesn’t get any presents (at least until we get home); he has his celebratory drink in a clear plastic cup while his lovely wife doodles online for christmas cards and bmx tracks, and he will wake up to a mediocre pancake breakfast downstairs in the lobby. Boo friggity hoo.
Husband actually forgot my birthday when we got married, and last year I had a particularly lame non-celebration of my birthday. This year it appears to be his turn. But it’s not all bad. Tomorrow he can wake up somewhat refreshed after not being kicked in the junk all night after sharing a bed with his 6yo (tonight that’s my job, sans junk), rejoice in yet more rugby; drive 5 hours home to a bunch of thoughtful gifts, sing ‘the hills are alive’ in the green green backyard after opening his presents; enjoy his beverage of choice in glassware of his choice and repair to his chamber with his lovely wife.
Happy Birthday Husband, luv ya guts. And ya beard.