It ain't the heat, it's the humility. - Yogi Berra

For the record, there is nothing like a hot, sweaty, drooling baby crawling around to let you know just how inadequate that last bout of vacuuming was.
Or perhaps futile is a better word choice.

What are we doing today?
Visiting Dad at work?
Going to the public library to find book about tornadoes, Primo’s latest obsession?
Visiting their old preschool before it closes for good at the end of June?
Getting Mama some caffeine? [This is NOT an option, but a necessity.]
Grocery shopping for diapers and wipes and shaving cream and laundry detergent and any number of other necessities I would SWEAR I had JUST stocked up on?
Buying the boys their summer sandals and new sneakers?
Visiting the library where I work because they have an excellent children’s collection?
So many options.

It’s going to be ninety degrees here today.
That must factor in.
It’s so hot that even the goldfish looks hot.

Did I mention that Segundo is potty-training?
He’s doing great, but god, it’s so much work.
It’s almost - I say almost – easier to just deal with diapers.
But he must be trained to attend preschool in the fall.

Also, for whatever reason, my children REFUSE to accept that it’s like Africa-hot, and insist on wearing sweatpants, long-sleeved t-shirts – yesterday I had to wrestle a polarfleece out of Segundo’s literally hot little hands. Time for a dresser drawer purge of all things winter-like. Even the long-sleeved t-shirts I left there for cool summer evenings at the park or the beach – must be hidden.

The only sure thing is that tonight? I drink. With other mamas from Primo’s preschool who have also just endured their first few days full-day with *their* preschooler(s).

***********

So we traveled far and wide today.

First – H’s office. I NEVER understand this, his wanting us to come visit him there. He inevitably looks harried and worried because there are people trying to WORK, and I spend the whole time comparing my sweaty, fat, stringy-haired, squinty-eyed self to all the sleek and well-turned-out office-types who are not stressed out trying to herd three small children quietly throughout the halls. And then I think, “Oh, crap, they probably all think I am checking up on H,” when the reality of it is? I don’t care. At this particular moment. If anyone wants his self-absorbed, slightly-geeky, semi-Asperger’s self? They are welcome to him.
I mean, I love him and all, but I DO have that sticky-out-y stomach issue going on. AS HE CONTINUES TO POINT OUT.
So I ask you, would YOU want him?

Then we walked the two blocks (was I insane?) to the library, where all the computers were down. So the kind lady behind the counter had to handwrite all the barcodes for all our books – all, oh, sixteen of them – for checking-out purposes. Now here is where H redeems himself – he drove the car from where it was parked in front of his office building and left it right outside the library for me. God bless him, because anyone knows that the most difficult thing of any outing is getting the kids in and out of the car. Everything else in between, I can handle with (some) equanimity.

THEN we drove to the boys’ old daycare, which is closing at the end of this month, so H and I thought it would be nice for the boys to go say hi and good-bye to everyone. I enjoyed seeing everyone, but the fact of the matter is that I can never remember whose child is whose, and what people’s names are, and my boys acted like they had never ever seen these people before in their lives. Except the baby, who was thrilled to bits to discover that there are other people his size out there in the big wide world! And they would smile at him! And let him teeth their toys! Oh joy!

And then I descended to the lowest depths of decadence and bad-mama-ism: I not only bought Happy Meals on the way home? I CHARGED THEM so I wouldn’t have to stop at an ATM. I think fast food restaurants accepting credit cards is pretty much the end of civilization as we know it, a depravity like unto the Roman Empire’s all-you-can-eat Christian buffets, and the need for a portion of their houses to be actually named the vomitorium. It’s only the first full day of vacation, and here I am. How much lower can I go? I am all too afraid we shall soon find out.

Then this is where I should blog about what this blog is meant to be about (ya folla?): books. Soon, I swear. I, as Blackbird might say and I believe has, pinky swear. I PROMISE YOU. But now, enough about that literary crap. It’s hot and I desperately need a drink. Preferably alcoholic.

Cheers!