Spring of Our Discontent

My hair stylist pointed out that I had some gray hair last time I went to see her (I will forgive her because it seems she doesn't yet realize how vain I am), and I am convinced that I have aquired more after last night. Who knows, next I may be sporting all-over blue and getting a senior discount at places. My kids worked diligently on getting into the Disgruntled Behavior Hall of Fame last night, beginning with our walk through the neighborhood. Halfway down the block, Spitfire and her good friend decide to turn back and ditch the scooters for their bikes, as I try to keep a giddy-with-freedom Destructo from angling into the street at each and every opportunity (we didn't bring his stroller this time, which turned out to be a grave miscalculation on my part). When we arrive, a dispute arises about scooters and bikes and who gets to ride which mode of transportation, and then Destructo squeals as though being put through a Chinese water torture when I try to get him buckled back into his stroller. In the end, the walk gets scrapped, and my clan heads back to our house across the street, amid desparing cries and accusations of war crimes against my soldiers. Inside, I put dinner in the microwave and try to tune out the sound of Spitfire wailing woefully at the open window (the neighbors think I am beating her mercilessly?). Instead of eating his dinner, Destructo decides to throw it, and then crawl up onto the table simply because he can, now that we have started seating him in a booster instead of his high chair. Afterward, out of sheer hopelessness, I take them to the park, dump them onto the open grassy area, and hope they run until they can't run anymore. Of course, kids at this age don't ever hit the "wall," as they are fueled by some type of magical energy bank that never goes dry, but, I reason that it is worth a try. We find some dandelions blooming.

Back at home, it's time for our bath and bed routine, which goes suprisingly smoothly. I lie with Spitfire as promised--the plan being to get up when she falls asleep. But at midnight I wake and find that I have carelessly wasted several hours of rare, me-time sleeping! Agh!! I get up, defiantly, and make for the TV, just as Dart Guy ambles back home from the dart league. My poor, better half is caught in a season of discontent, and doesn't quite know which direction to turn, having left this house only hours earlier while it was still inhabited by a right-minded, somewhat well-mannered, possibly even smiling, supportive wife. The only words of comfort I have for you Dart Guy are these: Your week in Vegas is just around the corner. Cheer up.