J-F was away the last few days — his annual fishing weekend with the boys.
How can having sole charge of a toddler for more than 24 hours at a time be so exhausting yet so refreshing at the same time?
Better to let her have her own seat on the Metro while tired rush-hour commuters look on resentfully, or give up one (or both) of our seats and let everyone endure a tanrum for the duration of our journey?
Why does Helena not see delicately herbed tomato pizza as a treat, the way I do?
Why is it that I so rarely can muster the energy to be motivated enough to be at the park at 8 in the morning when J-F is around?
How is that I fail to get a proper night's sleep when it's even more important that I be properly rested?
The park! All to ourselves! Allowed her to experiment on the big-kid climbing apparatus, tackle the big slide.
Shopping! Fresh air! Exercise! Early bedtimes for her, late nights of reading in bed for me.
I enjoyed the privilege of dropping off and picking up Helena at daycare on Friday. When we got there, Helena didn't want me to leave. What the hell. I stayed about an hour, through snacktime. The educatrice was trying to get everyone excited about going to the park for the rest of the morning. One little girl said she wanted to nap, and all the others thought this was a great idea. (But they were eventually dragged off to the park anyway, and had great fun.) Snack finished, Helena reached for a jigsaw puzzle and didn't blink when I left.
Drop-off and pick-up is J-F's task. The daycare is, after all, across the street from his place of employment. Too, I always looked at this arrangement as their ritual quality time together. But sometimes I feel like I'm missing out.
Vacation's over now. Back to normal.