Sep
8
JB and I managed to have our kids-free outing today and it was perfect. The weather was glorious — a lovely last gasp of summer — and the hike on Tiger Mountain was gratifyingly ass-kicking (about 2000 feet straight uphill, woof). We missed the kids enough to talk about them a lot but not so much that we rushed immediately back to daycare afterwards; instead, we lolled around our sweetly silent house for a bit and leisurely ate slices of homemade apple bread — WITHOUT SHARING. Bliss.
Always tempting fate, this guy.
It seems hard to believe but I realized this was the first real hike I’ve been on since before I was pregnant with Riley. That’s over three years, jesus.
(Also, I seriously hate having hair that’s too short to pull back, but long enough to get all sweaty and gross.)
The last bit of the trail before the summit, right about the point when my legs said EXCUSE ME BUT PLEASE STOP THIS INSANITY RIGHT THE FUCK NOW.
At the top there were these birds checking us out and stealing pieces of our sandwiches, I don’t know what they were (some kind of jay? JB said he knew them only as “camp robbers”) but they were incredibly bold.
See? Check out that Dr. Doolittle shit right there! Of course, I’m grimacing and squealing in fear because OMG BIRDS. Their scrabbly, gritchy FEET. GRAH.
I have an incredibly awesome photo of JB from when he first held his hand out for these birds and they completely freaked him out by immediately swooping in; in it he’s sort of shrieking and running away and it is SO GREAT, but he REFUSES to let me post it. So you’ll just have to use your imagination. Remember: shrieking.
The view from the top. Ahh.
After today’s break, I feel like my parenting reserves got refreshed in a big way. Which is a good thing, because someone in this house still looks like this:
Sep
7
I miss pre-parenthood weekends. I miss reading more than five pages of a book a time, and being able to leave the house on my own whenever I want to. I miss naps. I’d like to linger over the Sunday paper with three or four cups of coffee, consumed while they’re still hot; I’d like to embark on an outing that lasts more than an hour and a half; I want to see a fucking matinee.
JB and I try to give each other breaks to get out and do something for ourselves but the majority of our weekends revolves endlessly around the kids — outdoor markets, playgrounds, trips to the farm — and that is as it should be and I love doing things as a family, but goddamn if I don’t also sometimes feel like parenthood is a sort of jail sentence, where the life you used to have is just obliterated, even small comforts like showering on your own schedule and eating a quiet dinner are a thing of the past, and it’s not like you’d trade it for anything and it’s not like you aren’t content and happy and often joyous in your new life but GOD. DAMN.
It’s been a particularly trying couple of days around here (PERHAPS YOU CAN TELL). Riley’s been whiny and fractious and generally a horrific pain in the ass, and based on his symptoms (mild fever, refusing to eat, complaining vaguely about something in his head hurting, a smattering of tiny red sores in his mouth today) I’m fairly sure he’s got Hand, foot, and mouth disease, which as far as I’m concerned should be re-named 3-ft-tall Asshole disease because holy god does it ever transform a toddler into a–well, anyway, I love my son with every molecule of my being and I really am sympathetic to his plight but if ever there was a weekend that called for a fistful of Xanax this was really and truly it.
(Sadly, I don’t even have any Xanax. The one time I foolishly asked for a medication to help me deal with stressful issues the doctor put me on an antidepressant which made me crazy when I stopped taking it, which, wow, how creepy is that?)
(And yes, we’ll take Riley to the doctor if he doesn’t get better, and no, I don’t want to hear a story about a kid whose parents thought he had 3-ft-tall Asshole disease but it turned out to be Hantavirus.)
Anyway, JB and I are planning to take the day off from work tomorrow, drop the kids at daycare (assuming everyone’s health seems in order) and head out for a long day hike: a tiny reminder of the pre-kid activities we used to do. I feel like I need this outing in a deep cellular level, and I can’t wait.
Lastly, have you seen this print ad?
It’s for Trojan condoms, the message seeming to be something about how guys who don’t use rubbers are pigs and guys who do get to (safely) bone the hot blonde bikini chick. There are many visual treats to enjoy in this advertisement, but I’d like to draw your attention to one particular section of the page:
I guess at least the “suntan lotion” isn’t going in her mouth, but oh MY.
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