It’s been a rough week, logistics wise. I thought my husband leaving town for the last trimester of my pregnancy was hard, but man this two week trip is draaaaaaagging. It’s easier in a way, because I don’t have time to, like, miss his sparkling presence from my day – I’m too busy missing his pair of hands to help corral babies and dogs and clean, etc. To be fair, Virgil has been an absolute dream – he’s a very well-behaved dog when Patrick’s not around, I think because he’s depressed. Jack, my ENERGETIC son, is making up for this in many ways, including: learning how to remove plug covers and stick metal objects in the plugs with ease; teleporting himself from Right Next to Mom instantaneously to Right Next To The Toilet Paper Roll, Which Is Now On The Floor in a Pile; dumping trash cans and spreading their contents over the immediate square mile; and practicing for the upcoming Shrieking Olympics. He shrieks for the joy of hearing his own voice, shrieks if he’s hungry, shrieks if he’s bored, shrieks pretty much all day long. Per all of the parenting literature in the world, I am trying to ignore it, but I gotta tell you it shreds your nerves and every once in a while I snap and shriek scolds back at him. He usually laughs when I do this. Punk.
We agreed on a counter offer on the house yesterday, so once we put pen to paper we will officially be under contract, within a week of listing. This is amazing. Last night in my glee at being under contract (read: not having to vacuum my way out the door before work anymore! I can leave dirty dishes in the sink in the morning!), I skipped outside to collect Jack’s Pack n Play from the trunk of the car, which is where it’s been living this past week so as to make our house look huge and clutter free. It was raining. I was hurrying. The crib part (i.e. the heavy part) slipped out of the carrying bit (i.e. the slippery, useless handle that always dumps its contents) and landed with impressive precision directly on my right middle toe, sheathed only in flip flops.
Scene: early evening. Driveway. Dimly lit, raining. Crazy girl in pajama bottoms, work blouse and flip flops is beating the stuffing out of what looks to be a portable crib, screaming some astonishing words at the top of her lungs. Additional screams can be heard coming from in the house, where a shaggy haired small boy is voicing discontent at being trapped in a high chair. Short dog is barking helpfully. Girl drags portable crib up sopping wet driveway, limping and snarling. We hear the small boy shriek, a few more choice words, a piercing bark, and then the front door slams.
How about we close our scene there? I think it’s best not to follow her in. Suffice to say it was a Two Drink Evening.