I have to say, there was a point in the middle of the day yesterday when I really thought that I'd reached the end of my rope. Charlotte had single-handedly blazed a new frontier into a shrill new realm of whiney brattiness heretofore unexplored. My friend Sean had gamely invited us over for a last minute play-date with his son, Owen (just shy of Charlotte's age), but even that went South quickly. In alarmingly short order, it was clear that a meltdown was imminent, so I bid Sean and his lovely wife a hasty adieu and hauled my feisty brood homewards. Hitting vocal octaves with piercing entreaties that I'm dead sure only dogs could accurately decipher, Charlotte had clearly reached her little wit's end -- much like Daddy. Had it not been for a merciful mid-afternoon visit from our beloved baby-sitter, Sarah (a font of seemingly everlasting patience), it seems likely that my daughter and I might have slain each other, with little Oliver looking on, giggling cherubically.
Charlotte's clearly in the midst of what we nervously optimistic parents refer to as "a phase." She's currently in a transitionary period -- much like adolescence. As such, I'm told it's perfectly routine for her to be as defiant and unreasonable and even unmanageable as she's been in the last few weeks. It's nice to know that it's nothing out of the ordinary, but it doesn't make the experience any less painful and unpleasant for all parties concerned. Little Oliver, meanwhile, has been an absolute bundle of cheer. Despite being worryingly hyper-kinetic and ever-mobile, Oliver is ebullient and resilient in equal measures, babbling happily as he wobbles and trots around the apartment, banging his little noggin against every available hard surface.
Eventually, my three days of solo parenting came to a close when Peggy walked in the door last night around 10 p.m. I'd managed to keep our children alive through seventy-two hours, five playground-visits, eight patience-eviscerating meals, innumerable diaper-changes and an incalculable eternity of sanity-destroying children's television. They may not have eaten healthily while in my care, but at least they ate and we all lived to tell the tale.
Today, back in what working folks refer to as the Working Week (a distinction I haven't had to trouble myself with for a little over a month), I'm again facing that confusing shell game of securing new employment. As I've mentioned, I've had four interviews with four different media outlets so far. Obviously, I'm interested in certain ones more so than others, but I'm actively pursuing each of them to fruition. Ideally, I'll have a selection to choose from in the end, but at this point, a single offer would be encouraging.
I do have a follow-up interview with my favorite of the four tomorrow, though, so things might be looking up. As always, don't touch that dial.
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