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Saturday, November 21, 2015

Time to Write

Finding time to write is difficult at best, and some days it is next to impossible. With my small people running around, I am always amazed at how busy and tired I can be without actually accomplishing anything. Take this morning as an example.

The baby and I wake up at six, because Boy Two never bothers to check the calendar to see if it's Saturday or not. He's been sick since the day before yesterday, and for the second time in a row his eyes are crusted shut with dried goo that had oozed from his face overnight. Blinded, he cries, first with confusion and then with anger as I pick him up out of bed and attack him with a warm, wet washcloth. Between the tears and the steam his eyes open, but he is an angry, grumpy mess, making all kinds of noise as my husband and Boy One try to sleep. I decide to take him on a bike ride to get some breakfast, because every day is better with a breakfast burrito. (Three cheers for breakfast burritos.)

Getting out of the apparent with my bike and baby gear takes almost forever. I have to dress the kid, find shoes and sweaters, helmets and my wallet, and then lead my bike with one hand and the baby Burley with other out the door and down the hallway, just hoping that Boy Two will follow. Getting two people and all of the vehicles into the elevator is a herculean feat, then I take up most of the entryway downstairs trying to hook the Burley to my bike without my little person running down the hallways into anyone else's apartment.

Finally everything is hooked up and strapped down and we glide out the glass doors, riding like a helmet-clad tortoise with a trailer through the apartment complex and onto the street. The baby sneezes and snot bubbles out of his face, but I can't very well stop in the middle of traffic to wipe his nose, so he wipes it himself, spreading boogers all over his cheek and arm. I continue to ride.

We ride to the park, but it is too early in the morning and the equipment is too wet for a sick little boy. No dice, but breakfast calls. Umm...breakfast burritos....

We ride to Sammy's Burgers, Subs, and Taco's, which is as dark as the day is long. They don't open until nine, and according to the woman in pajama pants fumbling with her purse and phone, it is only 7:52. She walks into Starbucks and I bemoan my burrito-less luck.

We ride over McDonalds, which is never closed, and park the bike and Burley in a parking space. We are almost as long as the Prius in the space next to us, and I collect my wallet and my child.

Inside, Boy Two screams bloody murder because I won't buy him a cookie, and the man asking for Splenda besides me thinks this is hilarious. I want to say that I think his pink pants are hilarious, but I hold my tongue. Maybe he is just laughing at my helmet mirror. It deserves to be laughed at.

Content with his hashbrown, Boy Two lounges in the Burley as I peddle, lamenting the three inches of pavement that the road calls a bike lane. After the reverse acrobatics required to get everyone and everything upsatirs, I collapse into the apartment.

Boy One is upon me before I can even get off my shoes.

"Last night I had a dream that I had a million Pokémon and all of them were the best with 1000 damage and no one was able to beat me in any of my battles!"

"That sounds great. Are you hungry?"

"I want pancakes."

"How about a fruit and yogurt parfait?"


Chaos ensues as Boy Two demands the yogurt and Boy One teases him. The rest of the hash brown and most of the yogurt end up on the carpet, and all of this fun before 8:30 in the morning.

Now, don't even talk to me about the dishes.

Sunday, November 8, 2015


I got up at 6:40, which is sleeping in, so I can't complain. Boy Two was up a few minutes later, in tears because breakfast wasn't delivered to him in bed within seconds of his becoming concious.

Through the tears, I cooked eggs, most of which he threw on the floor before demanding a large serving of BBQ pop-chips. He did not volunteer to help clean up the eggs.

I tried to take a shower alone, but Boy Two came in and stood outside the tub, ripping at his clothes trying to take off his shirt and yelling, "Bahf. Bahf!" Okay, fine. I took off his clothes and tried not to slip on the super-hero bananza that he dumped in the tub upon entering.

After the shower, wet kid tried to run all over the apartment butt-naked, refusing to put on his diaper lest hell freeze over. I tried to get dressed myself instead, so he decided to cry some more. Fun times all around.

Boy One woke up from the screaming and immediately began to relate his dream to me in intricate detail. There were giant kangaroos and swords and he was a tad embarrassed to admit that the whole thing had creeped him out. Hard to blame the kid for that, though. I never want to find myself facing a squad of giant sword wielding kangaroos either. That kid has the strangest dreams.

Everyone up. Everyone dressed. Everyone in the car. I called my parents on the way to church, and Boy Two fell asleep in the car. I carried him, drowsy, into the sanctuary.

The boys sat with me for half of the service, but the sermon wasn't to Boy Two's liking, so we had to leave when he started running up and down the last row of chairs. Thankfully no one sneered at us on our way out.

On the way to the car, I stopped at the bathroom, and while I was using the facilities Boy One turned off the lights and refused to turn them on again. Boy Two squealed with laughter until he ran into the door in the darkness. I managed to find both of them and get us to the car without any further damage.

Then, we were off to Ikea. It went about ad well as could be expected. High points included when Boy Two spilled my soup all over his pants and the tantrum of the stuffed giant carrot I refused to buy. Ice cream soothed the soul of all upon departure, but Boy Two wore more of it than he managed to eat.

I've given up on ever having a clean car again.

Next came Sprouts and a fit over when we would or would not go to the park. Miraculously they were both bribed successfully with the purchase of grapes, so we managed to escape yet another public establishment relatively unscathed.

Then it was time for the park. I spent 45 minutes following Boy Two around while Boy One ran here and there and climbed on top of the tube slide. "Better the top of the slide than the roof of my apartment," I thought. When I finally convinced Boy One to go, it was almost two o'clock.

The days are so, so long.

After that, we came home, ate lunch, put the baby down for a nap, washed two loads of laundry, did some dishes, put together the lamp from Ikea and played a round of Lego Star Wars. Then, my husband took the boys back to the park, and I went to Trader Joe's, put the groceries away, and wrote this lovely reflection on why I am never excited for the weekend.

It's six o'clock.... Man, am I ever ready to go to bed.