On the other hand, if you live within roughly 6.31 miles of me, probably you did.
It has been a ridiculous summer. Wonderful kid stuff, improbable mama stuff, some absurd kid stuff, some astonishing family stuff. And then slog stuff, which is expected and yet somehow seems to do a wonderful pufferfish imitation, when it comes to the amount of work-time it required.
I have a backlog of stories to tell you, but let me just let it rest with this: school has started.
The Eldest has begun second grade, and managed to be tense but pleased last week. He was even more pleased when the puppydog eyes worked on one of the teachers, and she let him take home one of the classroom books. He finished it the next day, and I spent a lot of time hollering for him, blinking at the silence before noticing the attachment of nose to binding.
Had that one coming, no? (Mother-mine, your comments aren't needed at this point. And yes, I can hear you laughing. You don't have to call and tell me how funny that is, because I was just like - oh. Hi, Mom.)
The Toddles has begun preschool, and did so with an astonishing lack of fanfare. While I hovered, teary-eyed in the background, the Toddles checked in with me once, twice, and then went to fall in love with his two new friends, Girl Adorable and Girl Lovely. When I picked him up, he asked if they could come and have a playtime with us? And sure enough, Girl Adorable did.
My teacher has a smile, he confided in me, that when I see it, I can tell that she gives hugs. I nodded. I knew that because, seeing me sniffle, she'd hugged me.
I inserted fanfare by managing to set off the fire alarm just before the kids sang happy birthday to the Toddles - a story that deserves its own post. (see? backlog!) And then took pictures of the aftermath, all of which have other people's children in them, so I can't show them to you.
Oh, and we managed to be on time 4 out of 5 times: an Imperfect record. This may have something to do with the promise of hot cocoa for children who are ready to go early, possibly related to the alarm clock that says hilarious things when you hit snooze, and then wake up enough to listen. And laugh. Which seems to set the day off to a good start. (except when they slow down and keep hitting snooze, rather than brushing teeth. Funny clock vs toothbrushing - can you see where this is going?)
But oh, yes. All manner of things will be well, and all manner of things will be well. Regular amounts of sleep will slink back in, and routines will establish. Even carpools. But for now, while the Man is resting his post-Jimmy Fund walk bones in another part of the country, I have to go and washdishesmakelunchespacksnacksprintdrivingdirectionsmaillettersfindcleanclothes and find the Eldest's bloody OT report (see? a whole backlog), so that I can argue with the insurance people tomorrow. Danged thing isn't filed, it's not in the random pile of Papers To File, and it's not, as I suspected, in the Man's inbox. He gave me permission to rummage through it, and while I did find any number of things that should have been dealt with 4-7 months ago, I didn't find the report.
At which point, still alarmingly tired and now out of sorts, I tossed out the surprising amount of extraneous paper, stapled repeat notices of various sorts together, put all of the recipes into a folder marked "RECIPES," and have made another folder marked "REQUIRING ACTION."
Because every escape from the loving home and hearth should come with a price, don't you think?