I'd love to be typing "hey, I survived the solo-parent weekend!" and all that right now, but truth be told, it's 7:30 pm on Sunday night and the rigors are still virgorously at play. I honestly have no concept how single parents do it. I'm bruised, battered, beaten, bleary-eyed and my back is killing me. I haven't showered in two days, my t-shirts are stained, my fingers stink of baby formula and I've changed more pairs of unspeakably-polluted diapers than I'd wish on Dr. Ayman Al-Zawahiri. The little one was finally coaxed down (after consuming practically double his already hefty weight in formula), and the two-year is continuing to rise and whimper after repeated soothing-visits. I just went in for the fourth time with a bottle of milk to hopefully finally buy her silence. When will the madness end?
I shouldn't be too surprised, really. After a long weekend and a car trip, little kids usually go through a weird, inconsolable decompression period. All told, the weekend was a success. Some whiney bouts notwithstanding, Charlotte was a perfect little girl, and charmed the beJesus out of all and sundry on Saturday night. Likewise, Oliver was tirelessly cute, but postitively demands constant attention. There were high points (John, my step-father beaming at the sight of Charlotte in her little party dress, Oliver's easily coaxed smiles) and low points (the maddeningly shrill "Dora's Fiesta" talking book my cheekily sadistic mother gave to Charlotte -- seemingly to punnish me with, Oliver's easily coaxed, t-shirt ruining spit-ups). I'd love to extend a hearty thank you to my mother and my sister for helping me out. Both really went well above and beyond the call of familial duty. Suffice to say, I have newfound respect for the efforts my wife puts in with these two little diaper-filling terrors our children on a daily basis. That said, I cannot wait until she walks through the door (and after a weekend in my ham-fisted custody, neither can my kids!)
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