I'm starting to get giddy over the prospect of heading to D.C. this weekend. At the same time, I feel a little silly. It's just 2 days in the city proper and 1 day of traveling, after all. But still. Would you like to know one of the things I am most relishing? The plane rides to and fro. I will be captive. I will not be able to see that there are dishes to be washed, glass to be cleaned, laundry to be folded, groceries to buy, and children to monitor and instruct. And if I cannot see it, it doesn't quite exist (children excepted). There will be nothing to do but read and write and nap. I don't even care if I catch a cold from the recycled air. I don't even care that my hair will get all static electricity-fied, my skin will be zapped of moisture, and my eyes will get itchy. Don't care, don't care.
(I will also prep for my reading, but out of enormous amounts of respect for the other passengers on the plane, as well as a genuine desire to appear sane, I will perform only silent preparatory duties. Hahahahahaha! Can you just imagine someone flinging one of those little liquor bottles at my head and telling me to "shaddup, will ya?")
Anyways, I'm still working out childcare logistics. My Mom's multiple sclerosis, combined with my Dad's penchant for allowing the kids to eat M & M's for lunch, prevent them from providing 100% coverage for us. They will be on hand a bit, though, while my excellent babysitter, G, will take on the bulk of responsibility. I'm thankful all three girls will all be in school when I leave, as the drama surrounding my exits has been a little intense lately.
In other Nesting Ground news, the weather finally cooperated enough to allow R & V and their Butterfly teammates the enjoyment of an afternoon spent swinging and fielding, first against the Bumblebees and then the Beatles. Here is Risa sizing up the ball:
And Vida, taking off after a hit to center field:
It was all kinds of cuteness, but one of the opposing team's players put a damper on things when she had a full-on Veruca Salt tantrum, complete with hitting her mom and dad (her dad was head coach), calling them "stupid," and generally being a horrible little person. Her father kept saying, "This is your last warning! This is your last warning!" but not following through. I wanted to say, "Hey, Super Dad, her last warning was like twenty warnings ago." Her complaint(s), by the way, centered around the fact that she was not allowed to wear a pink helmet and that she refused to play anything but third base. She should be loads of fun during the teen years.
And finally: is there nothing this man can't do? Seriously. If Snoop can do it, I have to believe I can do it, too. Fo shiz...never mind.