No Really, I’m FINE.


I really don’t want to talk about it.

All week long, I have been dealing with We Came Back from Vacation and My House Fell Over Under All the Laundry.  Really, it did.  For some reason, as wonderful as Colorado is, it breeds laundry.

So, I’m prancercizing through my week, getting back into the whole Mom groove, feeling my vibe, chilling back into this whole nuclear family at home thing.

Next thing you know,  we’re hanging a stuffed backpack next to the door, and picking out clothes for the next day,  because it’s (DRUM ROLL):


I was cool with that.

Totes cool.  We had bought the supplies a month ago.  We had the doctor’s papers signed proving that Blonde is un-plagued.  We had even bought him a new toothbrush to toast the occasion.

I did edit the outfit he had picked since the one he chose kinda looked like he wanted to enroll in clown school.  Other than that, we were locked and loaded for:


And everything was gonna be just fine!

Like, totally fine! No problems here!  I have been preparing for this day since, uh, well about 5 years ago!!


And then I took him in to the classroom, shook hands with the teacher, watched him hang up his gigantic back pack, and signed up for something (I am not sure what).  We did hit a bit of a snag there when I realized I was gripping the teacher’s hand rather tightly, and staring at her with a lot of intensity.  I was trying to read her.  What if she hated all children and as soon as I left she decided to sell them?

It’s possible my husband had to suggest I leave.  I waved a lot to Blonde as we left, sort of the over-wave.  Like “is she having a seizure?” kind of waving.   Blonde didn’t much notice because there was play dough.  She had carpeted floors.  AND play dough?  The woman is fearless.

And still.  We’re good! This is awesome!  Blonde is so gonna love it!

And we’re walking home, the husband is chattering away about something that I had absolutely no interest in whatsoever; no problemo.

About half a block later, he’s in mid sentence about something involving rotating tires on something vehicular, I turned around and thought:  “He’s in there.  I’m going to just go back now and get him.”

From thereon I think the husband switched gears (GET IT? SEE WHAT I DID THERE? Even amidst Momsie distress I still got it.)   The hubs has learned that if there are tears he must stop and start talking to me like I am an injured baby bunny.  And yes, I KNOW this is somewhat patronizing, but I like baby bunnies and I chose this analogy.  So, he’s all:  “Ohhhhh. What’s wrong?  Is it allergies? Did you wave too much back there?  Something’s injured?  Do you need a juice box?  Or some alfalfa?”

We are now starting to play that great game for husbands and wives called:

Try to Figure Out What’s Wrong With Me, but Do It Fast Because Otherwise You’re Totally Insensitive!

Then:  It HIT him (which means, I finally had to say it, but there was no actual hitting involved):  The wee blonde is gone.


I spent the rest of the walk arguing in my head with Einstein about his whole theory of space and time and relativity and all. Where did the time, uh, GO?

Pfft.  Einstein is so overrated.

But, then again, if Blonde keeps going to school, he can learn that for himself.  I guess that’s acceptable.


The one on the right is a bit tall for elementary school, but he's cute and good with a protractor, so I bet they'll take him.
The one on the right is a bit tall for elementary school, but he’s cute and geeky good with a protractor, so I bet they’ll take him.






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