The Long Road Home

I just returned from an excruciatingly long trip alone with my toddlers.  And by trip I mean the mailbox.  I put Crazy and Craziette (my spell checker didn’t recognize “Craziette,“ did the Websters not have children?) in their side-by-side jogging stroller for the journey.  We ventured all the way down the driveway, up the street, along the path, and any other prepositional phrase you can think of.  Between the two of them there were two sippy cups thrown overboard, 16 punches thrown, and 276 attempts to disarm the 5-point harness and free the people (if you want to count them as people).  I arrived back home 10 minutes later with two screaming kids, a mound of bills, and a bucket full of crocodile tears.  Heading over to the computer to Google “Why bad things happen to good people?”  
 
In the meantime, I’m going to sneak upstairs and meditate on why other moms have figured out a way to enjoy dining out with their children while I’d rather hang upside down eating chocolate covered worms if I came by the worms via curbside pick-up instead of the dining area.

Gotta run.  Somebody’s kicking somebody else’s arse in the other room.  And we’re not even British!

 

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