When I picked up the kids after work, the weather was nice and they were playing outside.
I sat down and let them play for another hour.
K was working late, so there was no hurry.
I took off my jacket and, in my short sleeved shirt, enjoyed the sun's warmth on my arms.
The Mayor and The Rooster ran around and around the school playground.
I love it when they burn off the jet fuel like that.
"They'll fall asleep easily," I thought to myself, smiling.
The thing is, these scenes end in drama most days. Somewhere in in here I have a timing problem.
The perfection of the afternoon sun and the playground unravels as soon as we get in the car.
Everything becomes vile and loathsome once they are buckled into car seats, especially me.
Everything I say and do for the next sixty minutes, beginning with the car ride home and ending with dinner, will be an extraordinary failing as far as my children are concerned.
I start off by refusing to mitigate the daily fight over the middle seat belt buckle that doubles as an imaginary popsicle.
Mommy is terribly, horribly MEAN and the world is really, grossly unfair!
Lately, K has been walking home from the train station in order to get a little extra exercise.
When he arrived home tonight, both children were wailing inconsolably.
The Mayor begged his newly arrived father for a band-aid which he urgently needed having inflicted a small, almost imperceptible scratch upon his person during a bathroom mishap that allegedly occurred when I sent him in to wash his hands for dinner.
The Rooster simply needed food.
K and I stuffed their little faces with grilled cheese sandwiches, grapes, cucumber slices, buttered rice, blueberries (in January, I know, I know – the jet fuel, I totally suck) and then…
It was all Candy Land, all the time.
[Though the little cheaters insisted that K remove the Gingerbread Man card from the game's deck because both of them stand in firm opposition to the possibility that an unfortunate draw might set them so far back on the board.]