fucking tuesday, the sequel: fucking threesday.

If you haven't read about my morning yet, and want to know why these two moments were the balm my poor life needed, read fucking tuesday before you read this. 

Two things saved me this afternoon.

1. When the Ergo came out of the dryer and I strapped Buster on, I turned off Monsters Inc round 2, grabbed a binky from the bowl in Chicken's room, and said, "we're taking a walk." My evil plan was to get Chicken clipped down and binked, then rock and jostle him to sleep in the stroller, in the gray Seattle afternoon while I got a light workout and listened to my audiobook. This, I figured, was the only way to get all of us to dinner time without weeping, wailing, shaving of heads, and rending of garments.

We've been keeping the stroller in the garage, so we have to descend a flight of stairs to retrieve it. Now, Chicken has a checkered past with stairs. On the one hand, one time he lunged headfirst down a flight of stairs and was saved from certain concussion only by his mother's iron fist shooting out and latching, vice-like, around his ankle. On the other hand, one time he lunged headfirst down a flight of stairs and in fact fell down a flight of stairs. He was pretty pissed about that.

Ever since those incidents, I've been the hand-holding... I wouldn't say "Nazi." I'd say I've been a hand-holding Sister Mary Vicegrip at a cliche Catholic school: Strict, convinced of the righteousness of my beliefs, convinced I do what I do out of love. Every time we have to go down a flight of stairs I say, "hold my hand. Wait, wait, waitwaitwaitwaitwaitWAIT! HOLD MY HAND. PLEASE HOLD MY HAND." He still tries to lunge down every flight of stairs we see. 

Today we got to the top of the stairs to the garage, and before I said a word he stopped. He reached up, took my hand, and said, "hold hand? okay."



2. I called Ryan and told him what had happened this morning. We laughed. He "tsk"ed in all the right places, called our sons terrorists and savages, and then he said, "Kate, I just want you to know, I know you work much, much harder than I do. I know your job is much, much harder than my job. I spend my time trying to think of what job I could get just to bring us up to equal. I don't think there is one. I spend half an hour with the boys alone and I start looking for reinforcements. I don't know how you do it."

Then he came home, ate our minestrone, said it was delicious even though it was a little under-seasoned, gave Chicken a bath and read him four stories instead of three, took Buster out of my arms, and told me to go to the movies while he cleaned the kitchen.

I saw 22 Jump Street. Alone. 

It was really funny.

I've said it before. 

My husband? Just the best.

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