Should I be worried? My son wore his pajamas to the store today. He didn't have any underwear on, and I am not even certain whether he wore shoes. Andreas watched the kids while I taught an English seminar for the morning. How much damage could he do in five hours, I reasoned, kissing my tow-headed kids on the noggin and grabbing my keys off the table. Turning on my heel, I leveled my gaze at my already distressed husband. "I'll be back at one." I'm not sure whether it was a promise or a threat. By the looks of my dear hubby, he wasn't either.
The house was relatively orderly when I got home. No random underthings were hanging from the lamp, and there was actually lukewarm food in the oven. Andreas had managed to enforce our daily "quiet time" ritual in which the kids wreck havoc downstairs while the parents nap. Quiet as it's kept, we were sawing logs before our children could even crack their doors to see if the coast was clear. My exhaustion exceeded my concern for their safety. I assured myself they wouldn't do anything terribly naughty for the twenty minutes I feel into a deep, albeit transient, sleep. Aside from stuffing manadrin peels under the basement stairs, they didn't do anything too bad. Now, if I could only find my eyeglasses, I might be able to see if they've drawn on the livingroom walls...
It is a gorgeous, Indian summer day. We took a bike ride to the soccer field where our son amazed us with his talent. He is a full two years younger than Sophia and he manages to push her out of the way to get the ball.
