Kids are insane
Maisha came to town this weekend for her yearly visit with me. As always, it zapped all the energy out of me like a toaster in a bathtub — here are some words to summarize the past three days, in order as they occured:
running - enchiladas - ice cream - puking - dvds - “bonnie, wake up!” - “bonnie, are you getting up?” - “bonnie, i want a milkshake!” - “bonnie, i wanna go to dunkin’ donuts!” - shoe shopping - baseball in the rain - soccer in the rain - soccer in the sun - soccer with D. - asthma attack - ice cream - playground - piggy back - piggy back - piggy back - malaysian cuisine - crying - whining - crying - driving
(Note: neither the puking nor the asthma attack involved Maisha.)
Kids are tough. Like, really, they’re really tough. Maisha particularly, although at the same time, she’s equally awesome. But I am spent, spent like a lost Benjamin.
Copulate responsibly, people.