I received a call from The Madre this morning asking where my post was from yesterday. I explained to my mother that I didn't post because I was too tired at the end of the day. She let me know in no uncertain terms that this wasn't an acceptable reason. She's a demanding little thing, isn't she? I tell you, she's the reason I can't just order a regular ol' coffee and instead have to stop to catch my breath in the middle of a latte request.
The gremlins and Geekster had a really good time camping. So good, in fact, that he plans to take them for a longer period next year.
My first thought was that he had snapped while out in the wilderness. Maybe they were so awful that by the end of the first day his fragile mind was unable to cope with the stress and therefore fabricated this beautiful fantasy in which Intrepid and Gutsy used manners, did things when asked and followed simple directions. Frankly, I wonder why I haven't let my brain cannonball into the depths of insanity instead of only occasionally dipping its toes in. This would be a perfect solution to much of my daily choas.
Once I dismissed that idea, I wondered if maybe we had been doing things wrong all along. Maybe I should be passing the stay-at-home torch to my husband, as the kids seem to actually listen to him. Maybe Geekster should be eating bon-bons and helping Maury figure out who the baby daddy is while I head off to my engineering job. I could sit around and talk about the latest Unix spinoff, speak of the evils of Microsoft and eat lunch without having to refill anyone's milk cup. Now if I could also figure out how to have no knowledge of software development and still keep my job, we'd be all set.
But I don't think it's that, either. I think I've stumbled upon one of those male bonding experiences I can't possibly understand. I don't get camping. I try to, but I just don't. Having to watch young children around deadly things like water and fire, sleeping in a fabric tent with wild animals only a claw swipe away, eating a large portion of non-perishable foods and thinking they taste good because, really, after a full day of chasing children in open spaces pickled bovine tongue would taste good.... Can someone explain the fun in that?
I think it's a mystery reserved for men and only the hardiest of women (those of you who find joy in blistering heat and mosquitoes, my hats off to you). The good thing about their bonding experience is that it takes them away from the house once or twice a year. The nice thing about having three boys is that, shucks darn, I'll likely be the only one in this family so full of estrogen that I won't find joy in roughing it and will have to stay home.
I'll just need to accept the sad truth.
This week is SO busy. Intrepid's band is performing at Ottawa's yearly exhibition. He has rehearsal twice this week and is performing once this week and once the next. Unfortunately, I either need to find some kind of childcare for Gutsy or take him to this insanely busy place in all my pregnant glory. I can barely walk right now, let alone wrangle a three-year-old into behaving through a concert in such an environment. The Madre is going to try and move some stuff around scheduling-wise so she can watch Gutsy during the performances. I suppose I should probably stop picking on her in my blog until I get a firm commitment. I'm thoughtful like that.
Time to go get ready for rehearsal #1. Intrepid is dressed in a long sleeved shirt and jeans in what will quickly become 28c weather. Gutsy is wearing nothing but tighty whities and a backpack. I'm in my pyjamas, looking incredibly sexy, of course (there's no one here to deny or verify this statement, so you'll just have believe it). We have to be there in an hour.
I need to add a new term to my vocabulary: Advance Planning.
One weekend without the kids and I've turned into a slacker.
The gremlins and Geekster had a really good time camping. So good, in fact, that he plans to take them for a longer period next year.
My first thought was that he had snapped while out in the wilderness. Maybe they were so awful that by the end of the first day his fragile mind was unable to cope with the stress and therefore fabricated this beautiful fantasy in which Intrepid and Gutsy used manners, did things when asked and followed simple directions. Frankly, I wonder why I haven't let my brain cannonball into the depths of insanity instead of only occasionally dipping its toes in. This would be a perfect solution to much of my daily choas.
Once I dismissed that idea, I wondered if maybe we had been doing things wrong all along. Maybe I should be passing the stay-at-home torch to my husband, as the kids seem to actually listen to him. Maybe Geekster should be eating bon-bons and helping Maury figure out who the baby daddy is while I head off to my engineering job. I could sit around and talk about the latest Unix spinoff, speak of the evils of Microsoft and eat lunch without having to refill anyone's milk cup. Now if I could also figure out how to have no knowledge of software development and still keep my job, we'd be all set.
But I don't think it's that, either. I think I've stumbled upon one of those male bonding experiences I can't possibly understand. I don't get camping. I try to, but I just don't. Having to watch young children around deadly things like water and fire, sleeping in a fabric tent with wild animals only a claw swipe away, eating a large portion of non-perishable foods and thinking they taste good because, really, after a full day of chasing children in open spaces pickled bovine tongue would taste good.... Can someone explain the fun in that?
I think it's a mystery reserved for men and only the hardiest of women (those of you who find joy in blistering heat and mosquitoes, my hats off to you). The good thing about their bonding experience is that it takes them away from the house once or twice a year. The nice thing about having three boys is that, shucks darn, I'll likely be the only one in this family so full of estrogen that I won't find joy in roughing it and will have to stay home.
I'll just need to accept the sad truth.
This week is SO busy. Intrepid's band is performing at Ottawa's yearly exhibition. He has rehearsal twice this week and is performing once this week and once the next. Unfortunately, I either need to find some kind of childcare for Gutsy or take him to this insanely busy place in all my pregnant glory. I can barely walk right now, let alone wrangle a three-year-old into behaving through a concert in such an environment. The Madre is going to try and move some stuff around scheduling-wise so she can watch Gutsy during the performances. I suppose I should probably stop picking on her in my blog until I get a firm commitment. I'm thoughtful like that.
Time to go get ready for rehearsal #1. Intrepid is dressed in a long sleeved shirt and jeans in what will quickly become 28c weather. Gutsy is wearing nothing but tighty whities and a backpack. I'm in my pyjamas, looking incredibly sexy, of course (there's no one here to deny or verify this statement, so you'll just have believe it). We have to be there in an hour.
I need to add a new term to my vocabulary: Advance Planning.
One weekend without the kids and I've turned into a slacker.