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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.

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