This bag is not a toy.

I had a better day yesterday.  I got a pedicure with my sister, followed by dinner with her and my mom.  I was in the middle of writing a post about it all last night when my eyes grew heavy.  I set the computer down, just to rest my eyes a bit, and woke up at 2:00am still on the couch.  There may, or may not, have been drool on my face.

I slept for an amazing number of hours.  This is completely not my norm.  My friends probably woke up this morning in utter shock that I did not play my turn at Words with Friends or comment on their blogs at some ungodly hour of the night.  They probably got extra hours of sleep since their phone wasn’t alerting them that IT’S YOUR MOVE.

I can’t explain the Sleep Fest, other than I was emotionally exhausted from Cry Fest 2012 on Sunday.

Well, there’s that AND the fact that my boys left for camp yesterday morning.  And while they are at camp, I know that they are safe.  (Well, except for all of those physical activities, snakes and other dangers in nature, and the combination of hormones and members of the opposite sex.)  But I don’t have to worry about the things that I normally worry about.

I don’t have to worry that they are getting into a car with a drunk driver.  I don’t have to worry that they are sitting in their rooms listening to a violent fight between their dad and his girlfriend.  I don’t have to worry about a guys’ night poker game, complete with smoking, drinking and cursing.

Listen, I know that I am a worry wart.  It’s my nature.  But like those “This is not a toy” warnings on plastic bags, I worry because at one point in time, some moron tried it.  All of the aforementioned worries were tried by my ex-moron, along with a lot of other moronic things.

Once, after a weekend with their dad, the youngest son asked, “Mom, what happens to us if you get arrested when we are with you?”

Why on earth would I get arrested?

“Okay, not you.  What will happen to us if Dad gets arrested when we are with him?”

The police would call me to come and get you.  Why do you ask?

“Well, I’m not supposed to tell you, but Dad was almost arrested this weekend.”

[Gulp.] Oh.  What for?

“We were at a restaurant with some of his friends, and the waiter was taking too long to bring us the bill.  Dad had drunk some beer, so he was kinda angry.  He said, ‘Let’s just go’ and we did.  But then the manager chased us out to the parking lot and called the police.  The police were asking him questions and shining their flashlights in his face.”

Ew. What were you and your brother doing?

“We were just standing there scared thinking that we were going to jail.”

Hmmm…I guess it all worked out, since I didn’t get a phone call?

“Yeah, Dad went back in and paid the bill.  I was just wondering what wudda happened to us if he didn’t.”

After he walked away, I played out many scenarios in my head of what “wudda happened.”  Most of those scenarios ended with me beating their father with a stick or some other form of attack to make my point.  Lucky for all of us, it didn’t go in that direction.

And lucky for me, the boys are at camp until Friday, so I have four more wonderful days to dine with friends or sleep worry-free.

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