Friday, December 02, 2011
Sometime after Andrew got home and before the pizza arrived (as per our usual Friday night), I came very very close to locking myself in my room and taking a bath with the baby (who is probably not really a baby baby at 19 months, but he couldn't be left alone dumping water from cup to cup at the sink for too much time, right?).
Andrew was upset because we were not going swimming (per our usual Friday afternoon), Will was crying because Andrew was obstructing our ability to go to the park, Porter had dumped probably a quart of water all over the counter and floor by now but I just didn't have the strength of soul to stop his little napless determined self.
But somehow I didn't yell or cry, and somehow Andrew just stopped moaning about the pool and got dressed to go to the park and we made it there with everyone more or less pulled together emotionally.
We immediately met a truly wonderful dog. He bounded over to us with his tennis ball and before we knew it the kids were using the owner's ball thrower to play fetch. Chewy ended up following the kids all over the playground and I briefly entertained unreasonable thoughts of owning a dog, so long as he could be so kid-friendly and awesome as Chewy. I also found the little sweater I bought full priced (over priced) for Porter the night before we had our family photos taken and as a result have felt the need to wear every day to get our money's worth. It had sat at that park for a few days and rainy nights while my disorganized and messy self hoped it was just overlooked in the car. But there it was, no worse for wear at all.
After getting super weird for the kids while pushing them--a row of puffy-coated (red, navy, green)--on the swings and them laughing hysterically and me wondering how my behavior was shaping or warping their senses of humor and whether I should reign myself in a bit and then discovering that the pizza man has called me twice and must have arrived before the time I had asked (which is fine, but which I must mention to show that I was not irresponsible for once) we left. And we left happy.
Will did end up throwing up (for the second time today) the few bites he choked down and all that milk (8 ounces!), Porter did resume his spot at the sink on his learning tower/watering station and my headache did resume and rage, but somehow we really did all stay in good moods, even if I had to miss out on Fantastic Mr. Fox while putting Porter to bed and cleaning up 4 plots of vomit that stopped right at the bathroom door. At least there is something to be said for Will's previously professional-level vomiting downgrading to typical kid never reaching the toilet throw-up. There are some things in life you don't want a 4 year old to be very good at.
I can't help but think that I wish I had a nice, faithful retriever at my feet as I type. Maybe my husband just needs to get home.