You know, most days you feel like you're doing a fair to above average job of raising your kids. Then along comes yesterday morning, you arrive at your kid's preschool, walk in the door, and hear several people laugh and exclaim over the Captain America mask that it turns out your youngest is apparently wearing over his face. (How did I get through the morning thus far without ever looking at my son's face?) Then your other son takes off his coat and it turns out he's wearing his younger brother's obviously too small shirt. (How did I get through the morning thus far without looking at my other son's clothing and/or his proudly displayed belly button?) He looked like nothing else so much as Spike from the movie Notting Hill when he's wearing a too-small shirt and eating yogurt that is actually mayonnaise, except without the obviously British face.
Then, when it's time to pick your daughter up after school, and your boys beg to walk to the bus stop, you say sure, okay, it's only a block away, let's get some exercise, I've been saying 'no' to the both of you quite a bit today, it feels good to say 'yes' for once, let's walk to that bus stop. And the walk there is fine, but the buses are about ten minutes later than normal, no big deal, except when you're the mother who lets her three- and five-year-olds make important decisions like whether to walk or drive to the bus stop when the temp is right around zero and the wind chill is negative infinity and you're at the bus stop two hours earlier than normal because there's been an early dismissal due to the winter storm that's starting to blow through right about now.
Atticus was more or less fine, but poor Caedmon was huddled against me, pressing his face to my stomach to protect it from the wind and trying to shove his mittened hands into his coat pockets for added warmth. When Adelaide finally got there, we began the trudge home (and may I just note how much faster our children are when they're freezing to death), the wind blowing snow in our faces. Cade began to cry about halfway home- he never stopped his forward march, though- and presented a pretty pathetic picture, crying, high-stepping through the snow, huddled in on himself, trying to make himself as small a target as possible for the brutal wind. When we got home, he quickly stripped all his outer gear off, walked up the stairs, burrowed under the covers on his bed, and went straight to sleep. (Uh-oh, did I just find a new experimental treatment for night terrors? Should we be putting Atticus into freezing conditions to put him back to sleep?) (I'M KIDDING. We are not going to freeze our kid to death.)
Thankfully, Derek was home this morning and Adelaide's home sick from school, so no one's in any real danger today. Probably.