April 19, 2013

The Jedi Kicks 40's Ass

Bryon's birthday was this week. It was a day I wanted to honor with love, respect, fun, and reflection.

I know my husband well enough to know he shouldn't be left alone long on the actual day because he would start to what-if all of the mistakes he made as a young man instead of focusing on the huge amount of learning that came with those choices back then. And he would miss his dad for longer than a healthy amount of time. And he would start to contemplate the amount of life that is behind him instead of in front. And so on and so on. And so I needed a plan.

I wanted to do something to bring some huzzah to my Jedi. Something that was swirled in my love and silliness, something that he would always remember. And so the day before his birthday I came up with a plan.

Bryon was off of work already (we both took the week off to laze around, do home projects, and have a lot of fun and dirty pig s ex) so I had to wait until he was occupied with the neighbor running errands around town. I stopped by the party store on my way home and picked up 40 balloons in two enormous, plastic bags. Which I sped home within 7 minutes (the neighbor texted the whole way "we are almost home!" shut-up-Dave-I'm-already-rushing ) and met the boys at the door. We all ran the enormous bags next door to Dave's house and let them loose of their bags in his spare bedroom. We rushed back home, parked the car in the garage, and greeted Bryon mere seconds later.

Late that night after we went to bed, I waited forever for him to fall asleep. He'd roll and snore but didn't settle in until almost 11. Good gobs of goose liver, Dear. And so I crept down the hallway, being terribly careful to be quiet as a mouse. I left The Golden Girls playing in our room and also turned on the bathroom fan to mask any noises I might make later. I put on my coat, my stocking cap, and grabbed a flashlight. Once I realized I looked like a robber about to sprint across the yard, I took off the stocking cap and put away the flashlight.

I crept outside and down the sidewalk, and let myself into Dave's garage. We'd texted a plan for him to leave the balloons tied to his staircase so that I could retrieve them after Bryon fell asleep, without waking him. Apparently he was full of suspense though, because when I crept into his house (and yes, that does sound creepy) he greeted me with, "It's about time!" I almost died in fright.

We rebagged the balloons and in a mad, mad rush ran them back across the yards, from his place to ours in the pitch black and freezing night, and got them into our garage without so much as a *click* of the door. Once I carefully tippy-toed the bags into the house, I took them downstairs and let them out of their bags. God must have heard the loud praying because nobody woke up during my decorating, not even Trevor - and I was 5 feet from his head.

I separated the balloons and took the first 30 upstairs. I trimmed their little ribbons and let them loose up to our ceiling. It was a mess of Nebraska red-and-white glory in the great room, I'll give you that. My heart was racing as I worked and prayed for him to stay asleep. The other balloons were tucked out of the way until the next part of my plan.

I creeped back upstairs, cleaned up the trimmed ribbons (which Bo and Kiki thought were super awesome toys at midnight) and went back to bed. Sort of. I laid there in anticipation of the next part of my plan until about 4am.

At 4am I got up again, and again I tippy-toed out of our room without clicking the door or breathing very loudly, and got the last 9 balloons from downstairs. [There were 9 because we lost one in Dave's house; Bryon will be forever 39 in terms of balloons.] I trimmed the ribbons, whisper-yelled at the cats, and then crept back down the hallway holding the balloons. I hoped that he wouldn't be awake and sitting up in the bed when I tippy-toed back in because seeing your spouse at 4am with a handful of balloons and a psycho smile on their face will stock your therapy for life.

He was sound asleep so I positioned the balloons on the ceiling just over Bryon's head. And then I tried desperately to sleep for the next two hours until he woke up.

At 6am, he fluttered his gorgeous eyelashes open and then got a very puzzled look on his face. "Are those balloons?" He thought those 9 baby blue balloons (Carolina Tarheels, yo) were pretty sweet.

Then he got up to wake the boys for school and I waited in the hallway for him to see the rest. He passed me 3 times. He picked up the cat, he shouted at Trevor, giggled at Andy. And then finally, finally he looked over my head to see the other 30 red and white (Huskers, say what?) balloons floating through the room. "Did you get me 40 balloons?"

"Yes, I did," I said.

"That's pretty cool," he said, and curled his whiskers into my neck.

As it turns out, on his birthday Bryon smiled a lot. We cried some as we leafed through photos of his dad and then mine. We danced in the kitchen and made pork ribs on the grill in the garage. Plans of a weekend bash with 30 peeps in the backyard got hosed when the ice, snow and 30-degree weather settled in. But it was awesome anyway. AWESOME.

And several days of vacation left, full of home projects and fun, dirty pig s ex. Sorry, Mom.

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