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But at our house yesterday went like this:

Introduction to the game of tennis and making contact with the ball at the court backboard

Running about the playground

Colors & Shapes Bingo board game

Playing with cars

Weeding the backyard thistle and the defunct birds-of-paradise for an hour

Playing with basketballs and soccerballs in the front yard

Candyland

Building train tracks

Reading stories

Devouring meals and snacks every other hour

A little napping (Praise the Lord)

Sweet Cheeks and I are trying to wean the boys off of their 2-movie a weekend-day addiction. Man, it’s a lot of work.

 

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At one point when I was a kid, I remember wondering why there wasn’t a designated “Children’s Day” like a Mother’s or Father’s Day.

Every day is children’s day, my Mom told me.

Touche, mama.

At the new Rock Stars, Cars, and Guitars exhibit at the Children’s Museum on Friday, Pitter sat on a beloved motorcycle.

When do I get to ride a motorcycle, Mom? he asks constantly.
Never! I whisper under my breath. Nevermind that I have been on them myself.

Patter does karoke:

And then plays hippie-kid dressup:

On Saturday, we all waded through the 95% humidity soup and hit the PBS Kid’s Day in the Park downtown.

Patter tries to make sense of Cheep and Quack or whoever the hell these guys are:

Pitter looks nonplussed to meet Princess Presto. I donno. I don’t know why she didn’t bring her magic wand. (She looks a little dazed herself, too.)

And finally, we have Patter curiously approaching Martha the Talking Dog.

Did you spend your weekend ferrying small people around from one fabulous adventure to another? Or did you go to a cafe for dinner and enjoy a bottle of wine, hit a movie, and then enjoy a jazz brunch on Sunday?

Do tell.

I’m a stay-at-home-mom this week.

This picture sums it up pretty well, because what Pitter does, Patter must follow. And vice versa.

Is someone pulling their pants down? Let’s make it a party. Is someone screaming high C? Let’s all do it! Did someone spill yogurt on the rug? Let’s toss our own cup down in solidarity!

The kids are on some sort of school break that we could have avoided with “wrap around care” for a $220 payment on top of what we pay monthly for Montessori. That’s pretty steep for two and a half days of childcare (since Monday was a holiday). And god help me, I think there’s another week “off” at the end of the month, too. We may cough it up for that one.

So this week, every day, I scrape poop off of Hulk underwear, lecture about the evils of spitting, and allow way too many viewings of a Winnie the Pooh DVD on loan from the library than is probably wise. Man, I enjoy paying other people to do the heavy lifting for a few days a week.

We have great adventures too: The Children’s Museum, Trader Joe’s, the Library, the local playgrounds, the Splash Parks. But sometimes we have to leave early because there is too much hitting or teasing or shrieking or too many bad words uttered. And I drag them away, feeling humiliated and dejected. How many hours until bed time? What will we do if we don’t stay here?

Whenever I take vacation days from work and spend long stretches of time with the boys by myself I fall back into awe at the parents who do not have office escapes like mine. But then I see mothers at the playground with friends and they seem like they have a groove going on that I cannot find. They apparently have weekly plans and schedules and get-togethers that we part-timers don’t “need” in the same way. I don’t think I could handle such a life without the aid of the subject in a certain Rolling Stones song, but I am slightly jealous of the close friendships these women seem to have. It’s hard to foster close bonds with people you like whose children are around the same age when you can’t hang out all Thursday morning at the park.

Anyway.

Pitter sprinkles the days with “I love you Mommy. I love you” and Patter wants to snuggle and play with my hair a lot of the time. They know how to turn on the charm betwixt the Mommy Monster moments. It’s how we survive, I guess. And when I say survive, I mean as a species. Because these children of mine cannot be the only ones who have their mother walking a fine line of sanity/insanity on such fine early summer days.