My mom used to have the perfect phrase for stuff like this: "By guess and by gory!" Aye, matey!
I am sitting here in my super-baggy orange nite shirt with a pair of Dear Hubby's old black socks on my feet. I am tired. My regular routine was thrown all out of whack this week and I think my grandboys were suffering from the same malady. They need routine. They thrive on routine. Routine keeps our lives running smoothly here during the day. When they know what to expect and when to expect it, Life runs like clockwork. Take that away from them and from me and we have a mish-mash sense of chaos happening here. Naps get disrupted if they get taken at all. Things don't work right. Tempers flare. Voices get whiney. By the end of the day we're all drooping. Between the shortness of the week and Dear Hubby being on vacation...which means he's coming and going at odd hours all day...I was more than happy to wave goodbye and blow kisses out the door as the little guys headed for home this afternoon.
Yesterday Dear Hubby decided to go to the archery range he's a member of and the plan was for Dylan to go with him. Dylan's gone several times and loves it...it's in the woods and it's safe and he can run and run and run without worrying about traffic or any other danger. There's a horse and a donkey pastured across the gravel road and we always make sure Dylan has carrots and apples to take along to feed them. He walks thru the target course with Dear Hubby and they're usually gone for a few hours. He went willingly enough yesterday but without the usual bouncing-off-the-wall excitement he shows for it and followed Papa out the front door in a rather subdued manner. I watched out the window as Dear Hubby got him settled into his booster seat...then off they went. Cooper and I went for a walk while they were gone, doing some nearby errands. Not too long after we got home, along comes Dear Hubby and Dylan. They didn't really have the best time. "Not a bad time," Dear Hubby reported. "But not a good time." He said Dylan was homesick and wanted to get home to me and "PooPoo" -- his nickname for his little brother. That's never happened before. And then Dylan wanted to go for a walk. It was such an incredibly beautiful November day I couldn't say no so we packed up the double stroller and away we went...again. To the fire station. To the streets where Dylan's 'worker dude' friends have been working on the sewer lines since summer. They see us coming and we're such a common site now they call out, "Hey, little buddies!" to the boys and come over to talk and make a big deal out of the little guys which thrills Dylan to no end. As we walked on along a busy street Dylan suddenly bolted from me and I set off on a mad chase behind him with the stroller yelling, "Stop! Stop!" Luckily he came to a dead stop next to a store window instead of doing what I thought he might do, which was dash out into the crosswalk at the intersection. I grabbed hold of him, whirled him around, and gave him a swat on the rear. "Don't you EVER do that again! You scared Grandma half to death!" He rarely ever gets a swat but I felt that one was definitely deserved. Until he pointed at the window and I saw Christmas decorations sitting there. He'd spotted them and all he was doing was running to see them. But I didn't know that beforehand. He started to cry and wrapped his arms around me and wailed, "I'm having a BAD day, Mommy. A really, really bad day!" I squatted down to his level and just held him. Soothed him. Explained why he'd scared me so badly. Told him how much I loved him. Felt like a heel.
(A deep sigh goes here)
Sometimes being a little kid really stinks, doesn't it?Sometimes being an adult stinks, too.