Dangit if I don't know a whole mess of people named Karen and now you go and leave me a comment about the homeschooling and I have no idea which Karen to talk to. As if I don't have enough to think about.
My boy is sad. His Special Bwankey, Bewovey, or as the tall people say, Belovey, has been missing for almost a week. He cried himself to sleep tonight. The substitute Belovey is unacceptable. He can't even suck his thumb properly because he doesn't have his Belovey to help. And nothing smells the way Belovey smells (for this, I am thankful...there was no hope for making it smell fresh ever again).
He cries like his heart is broken.
Because it is broken.
And that makes me very, very sad.
Because three is too young to have an unfixable hurt.
It went a little something like this:
POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 67 MINUTES.
Stop for an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, to the bathroom, diapers changed, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, refill the water, dole out the snacks, buckle the seatbelts, curse under the breath, start car and go.
POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 22 MINUTES.
Stop for way more than an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, to the bathroom, diapers changed, play on the playground, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, refill the water, dole out the snacks, buckle the seatbelts, pray for bourbon, start car and go.
POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 53 MINUTES.
Stop for an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, to the bathroom, diapers changed, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, refill the water, dole out the snacks, buckle the seatbelts, curse under the breath, start car and go.
POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 47 MINUTES.
Stop for an hour, because it takes that long to get everyone out of the car, in the Waffle House, ordered, fed (except not really, because they didn't eat), to the bathroom, diapers changed, back to the car, back to the bathroom, back to the car, buckle the seatbelts, curse under the breath, start car and go across the parking lot to the Calico Corners outlet to look for a Substitute Beloved Blanket. Which? No dice. In the car, buckle up, unbuckle, change a diaper, serve cheese to accompany the WHINE.
POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 24 MINUTES.
Purchase dramamine.
POUNDING MYSELF IN THE FACE WITH A 2X4 FOR 84 MINUTES, WHILST CURSING THE MAKERS OF DRAMAMINE.
silence.
PINCHING MY EARLOBES TO STAY AWAKE.
The End.
****************************
Epilogue: I got into bed and was so exhausted I was dreaming I was still driving, and if I closed my eyes and went to sleep I'd crash my car and die. It was messed up.
I'm really to busy this week to be posting, but since I have received some requests for misadventures of the Dayton family, I will oblige.
We drove to Philadelphia. Or, if you're HB, Philadeedelphia. Kind of like Scarlett O'Hara and her Fiddle de dee, that's where we are.
To get here? Drove down I-81. That is a mistake. If you plan to drive in the SOUTHERLY direction on I-81 from the NORTHERNLY part of Pennsylvania (let's talk about spelling... how did Pennsylvania ever happen?) you should really reconsider. I will sum up the experience this way: Traffic was stopped so often and for so long, I taught my children how to do Chinese Fire Drills. And they all are in car seats. Also, Miss O drove for six miles.
Just kidding.
Or am I?
No, really, I'm kidding.
Honest.
Anyway, we have been hanging with the Well-Read Family. Everyone's in love. Miss O and the Well-Read Son are now betrothed. They were walking around Philadeedelphia holding hands and it's just wicked cute.
In other Philadeedelphia-related news, I was not surprised to learn that it costs $2 to visit Ben Franklin's grave. Also, not surprisingly WHATSOEVER, I learned that shooting in broad daylight with the aperture WIDE FREAKING OPEN is a mistake. I'm talking about shooting with a camera, too, for the record. And OF COURSE I learned this lesson after we had gotten back on the train to return to the Well-Read Household, and I saw that all of my pictures of Ben Franklin's grave were so overexposed that I could barely tell what they were. I took them to show to The Mister, because he likes Ben Franklin. Sorry.
I brought bread and pickles and jams to the Well-Reads, and for the other bloggers who came to partay on Sunday. I gave some to HER and HER and HER and HER. But? No bread for Bossy. She didn't come to the party. The Mister was disappointed I didn't get to meet Bossy.
And as disappointing as it is to be ignored by Bossy, even worse?
Please sit down. Really.
We lost Beloved Blanket. Wee Man's Beloved Belovey is gone. There is no sign of that thing. We're still in shock.
Condolences can be emailed to: thedaytontime (at) gmail (dot) com, Dear Wee Man in the subject line.
Thanks for your support.
Hotslings aren't just for infants.
In fact, HB was having a colossal temper tantrum little moment after church a week or so ago, and I put his punk ass my darling third-born son in the Hotslings while The Mister carried Sweets home.
I should have photographed that. Or caught some video. Because that kid was out of control.
It's not often that a two year old being special can be used as a marketing tool. Parishioners stared as I tossed HB up on my shoulder and slipped him down into the sling.
One kindly granny shook with fear for my life and shouted a warning, Look out for his pointy little elbows. Want me to whack him once with my cane?
Never fear, kindly granny, I replied in a most nonchalant fashion. I've got Old Bessie, my trusty Hotslings, at my side.
But it's just a piece of fabric! she shouted, unconvinced of the power of the Hotslings, What good can it possibly do for you in this moment of grave peril?!?!?!?
WHAT? I called back to her, unable to understand what she was saying over the din that was my son. What did you say?
IT'S JUST FABRIC! A PIECE OF COTTON!!! YOUR DEMISE IS IMMINENT!!!
Oh, no, Kindly Granny! The secret is in the... oh, never mind, I'm not telling you what the secret is! Then it wouldn't be secret any more.
And while we were shouting at each other, in a most neighborly way, I had arranged the padded rail comfortably behind the screaming person's knees. I pulled the sling tight, over my right shoulder, to lock that little snot my charming son in place.
He kicked and he screamed and still he could not escape the clutches of the Hotslings.
Yet still he flailed.
Still he screamed. He was dedicated.
He tried to kick me, but he couldn't.
He tried to punch me. MUAH-HAHAHAHA.... I laughed my I'm The Mama And I'm Winning Laugh.
A gaggle of kindly grannies gathered and gaped as we gregariously gabbed about my great garment. (Okay, it's not technically a garment, but I wear it so often, it might as well be one. And also? I had a great thing going with that alliteration there.)
Then we got tired of the screaming, and I walked home. The sweet, darling, light of my life had fallen asleep in the two minute walk up the street.
And that is how Hotslings saved Sunday.
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