Ken turned to me this weekend and said, “How’s this for a stretch challenge? Let’s try and take down our Christmas lights this weekend.”
This wouldn’t be an issue in January and probably not even February, but lordy, here we are in April. What’s even more frightening is that we didn’t even get around to it. (I mean, we’re talking a few simple strands of Christmas lights here, nothing major.)
However. At the end of last week, Ken messed up his foot and spent a few days limping around moaning before some kindly doc took pity on him and gave him painkillers. Which meant that I now had a looped and fairly-useless husband on my hands (that or a giant, 170-lb child). And yet, Saturday was a pretty good day–the kids played together really well and only destroyed a portion of our backyard with their shovels and hammers. All was well and good in our little kingdom as long as I remembered not to actually try and carry on a coherent conversation with my husband.
By Sunday, everything had fallen apart. We were downtown supporting a fundraiser for Japan when Nico had an allergic reaction to something at the sushi restaurant where we ate lunch (and inadvertently blew a portion of the kids’ college funds). A few hours later, we found out that Gabriel was allergic to peanuts, which blew the rest of the afternoon out of the water. By the time we finally came down from all that Benadryl, I’d pretty much given up hopes of accomplishing anything, so I set the kids in front of the TV with giant bowls of chocolate ice cream and called it a day.
Are we the only parents out there with such ridiculous weekends?
But there’s a silver lining to this story. When I was in high school, my friends came over and took our (fake) Christmas tree down in June. That’s right–June. So, you see, in my post-Communist Balkan family, at least, I’m actually ahead of the curve.