Walking home from school the other day, my eight-year-old daughter tucked her hand confidingly into mine as she told me all about something or other. I couldn't tell you what it was, now, because my brain had imploded from shock. She was holding my hand. And then my 10-year-old son did the same thing. So I was walking down the sidewalk between my children, holding both of their hands, and feeling like the sweet, creamy filling between the two Oreo wafers. Or some such. I tried not to gibber senselessly while it was going on, because under these circumstances, what is called for is Positive Reinforcement, which means you can't let your children know how much you love it when they hold your hand. Or they will never do it again.
So I'll tell the internet, instead.
Also, I just finished making the plane reservations for a trip next weekend with That Stud Muffin I Married. We're flying to Miami and staying here where we will attend a performance of this ballet company, go to a swanky reception, eat at at least one awesome restaurant, and loiter with Joke and That Fabulous Babe He Married. And the children's all-time favorite babysitter, who is bright, sweet, young, energetic, and responsible, has agreed to sit for the weekend.
Also, it's not cold out. It's January in Chicago and it hasn't been below freezing in days. Instead their usual ice skating expeditions, my children will be going mud wrestling for P.E. Or dirt biking. Or maybe just shoveling more compost over the perennials in the school yard. Whatever you can do outside when it's freakily warm and muddy.
This maybe isn't such great news for them or my rugs, but it does make some things much easier. Like getting over to the gym and working out. There's something so off-putting about putting on all these layers of clothes to get to the gym only to get there, take most of it off again, and proceed to get sweaty. But leaving the house in my work out clothes with no coat/hat/gloves/boots to deal with? Priceless.
So basically, it's so warm and squishy, it's like puppy poop around here. (Metaphorically speaking. I'm not Dooce.)