Dear Web Log, I'm well aware it is minutes to Wednesday and this post is about the weekend, but I have been pecking at this thing since Sunday afternoon, and I WILL HIT PUBLISH!!
Peter spent the weekend with some pretty cool kids. All a little older than him, I am always wary when he goes off with new people with long surfer hair and bikinis.
But these kids are all good students, good athletes, and good looking. They don't drink, or smoke, or swear; they don't even drink coffee or watch rated R movies. In fact, they are Mormon.
Saturday morning their car pulled up blaring Taylor Swift (a teen car not blasting obscenity laden rap music is rare indeed),and headed east to where our highway dead ends into the Atlantic.
They spent most of the daylight hours hopping from beach to beach, surfing and drinking Mountain Dew.
At one point one of the young gentleman asked a girl to prom by standing up four surf boards in the sand, each with a letter in wax: P R O M.
As their skin finally begged for relief from the salt and the sun, they headed off in carfuls to the Mormon owned ranch near their high school. Peter said it was like walking into some unknown Shangri-La, with a chlorinated swimming hole boasting water slides, rope swings, and rafts. Surrounded by live oaks and the palpable absence of the rest of the world, it was a Central Florida Mormon paradise.
When a boy spotted the gator, pictured above, about five feet long, they all gathered around to watch him pounce on it and put it to sleep by rubbing its belly (not a myth, but still). Peter was absolutely mystified by this boldness, and by the apparent everydayness of it to these kids, none of them thinking anything of it aside from him.
They spent the rest of the night around a bonfire, being teenagers, enjoying themselves so much that his ride decided he was just going to camp out there for the night along with a bunch of others. Peter called us to bring him and another friend home, and as Obi and I pulled up, old, gross, eavesdropping parents into a teenage bonfire party, we were greeted politely by hands being waved like friendly shadows over the flames of the campfire.
Peter was patted on the back by half a dozen kids, and half a dozen more called out to him, "See ya on Monday, Pete!" All friendly, unsullen voices. Rare. Sadly rare. I will make absolutely no statement at this point about what in the world Mormons must be doing so well (other than Taylor Swift, gag. Sorry, after the whole Harry Styles thing...).
Peter came home elated, and with a new pet, Sebastian. We have caught a dozen ghost crabs at the beach, but it took Group Teenage Think to bring one home as a pet. Apparently they dragged this poor thing all over the place, including Steak and Shake, where I am sure, Sebastian was greatly appreciated.
After staring at the crab for what must have been a crab-eternity, marveling over its alien-like resemblance to the District 9 creatures, Peter and Joseph hiked down to the volleyball pit at about midnight (are you kidding? Jude is far too lazy for that sort of thing) and filled a Rubbermaid container full of stolen sand for their stolen new roommate. I am the best mom.
Now we have the neighborhood's latest attraction, and the kids toddler to teen keep hustling lines of schoolfellows through our house to get a glimpse of the sad prisoner, gasping as he eagerly devours my sea food cooking. Sadly, I appreciate Sebastian as the only member of the household to have full appreciation for my overcooked garlic lemon shrimp. He can stay until he stinks.