How sweet it is…
But I’m so tired there are no words. Flying cross-country alone with a toddler — no matter how well-behaved she may be — is brutal. Doing it twice in a week, with a road trip from New York to Pennsylvania in between, is just unfair. I feel like I’ve been beaten with a sandbag.
Instead of writing, then, I shall lay my head back, close my eyes, and listen through the wall to Mike reading an (awful) Arthur book to MJ he readies her for bedtime. Just the fact that he is doing this, not me, causes an ecstasy so profound I dare not dilute it with other activities.
More tomorrow. I promise. For tonight? Catatonia in front of the newly decorated tree.
Our house is making cracking noises. Sharp ones. Rather frequently. “GRACK!”
Mike and I are telling each other it’s just settling, but honestly? It sounds more like snapping. Houses aren’t supposed to snap. Or crackle. Or pop. A house is not breakfast cereal. I am deeply disconcerted.
Another source of disturbance: Arthur is apparently an aardvark. WTF???!!! Has the world gone mad? More on this later. I’ve got to get some sleep.
The ipod Touch has been found. It was wedged between two cushions in the rocking chair in my daughter’s room. This is where we read to her before nap and at bedtime, and it must have fallen out of my pocket when I put her down yesterday afternoon. I was paying poor attention to such matters, being, as I was, dumbfounded and benumbed by the book she has recently become obsessed with. It is one in a series about an animal — of indeterminate genus — called Arthur. Many of you will know him. I know him, far, far better than I ever hoped to. And at the same time, not well enough at all. Arthur looks like this:
Agh! You tell me what the hell kind of animal that is. A squirrel? A mole? A bear? Theories in my household abound. I know, we could Google it and get a definitive answer, but no one wants to dignify the situation with that much attention.
Anyway, the stories in these Arthur books are bad enough — insipid, shallow, semi-moralistic tales that usually find their climax at a pizza party — but looking at his unidentifiable mug, page after page, while fielding constant questions from your two-year-old about what kind of animal he is, is enough to make anyone lose their ipod. Or their mind.