Day 2 wasn't as smooth as Day 1. Still awoke at 6:00 and got in my exercise. Breakfast was a breeze. Molly on the bus, no sweat. But then came the tears.
John wasn't flowing with the separation. As soon as I'd leave the room, he'd cry. And he wail. And he'd get mad and throw his pacifier. My pacification methods revolve around food, but I can offer only so many Goldfish. Or bananas. Or bread. Boy, please, go play! Needless to say, productivity took a dive.
The hits continued. I mentioned that one of my errands on Day 1 was to vacuum the mini-van. After picking up Molly at school, she said, "There's some pink sand back here." As in the back row where she sits. Not exactly. The "pink sand" was actually cherry lik-a-stix powder that she surreptitiously opened on the way home. Anger.
We got home, more wailing, listening skills from the girls at minimum levels. Things settled down around lunch. PB&J, cream cheese on cinnamon bread, clementines, carrots, etc. All was a calm. We had cake for dessert. In hindsight, I could have played that a bit smarter. The frosting was blue, among other colors. Clean up was EXTENSIVE. Lunch finally ended and we headed to the library.
I'm all about the reading. In fact, I won't deny my addiction to the bound and printed. I can't help myself. My favorite store? Easy -- Half-Priced Books. A selling point to a house we almost bought a few years back was its proximity to HPB. Probably what eliminated it from consideration as well. Moving on, the library was fine. We checked out books, we played, the kids used the bathroom because it's different from the ones at home. The usual.
We get home and the fit hits the shan. Molly checked out a CD from the library and decided to go down to the basement to listen to it on her player. I should mention that it's the Doodlebops, which is an extreme form of torture, thus the requirement that it be played below ground. Phoebe decided she wants to go, too. The problem here is that she didn't close the door, as she has been instructed to do over and over and over again. I set down the cart of books, turn around, and see John FALL DOWN THE STAIRS! I can't remember the last time I was simultaneously so scared and angry. Fortunately, the stairs are carpeted and they turn, so his descent was limited to just four steps. But the images of him cartwheeling down are plastered on my brain. Luckily, he bounced back quickly, the damage more in terms of fear than bumps and bruises. Hours later, I still had not relaxed.
The rest of the day was a tightrope. I was on edge, the girls weren't listening, and I kept thinking about the what if's of John's fall. We put them to bed early. I watched my Miami Heat -- that's right, I grew up there, so I have the right to support them -- beat the local team. And then sleep. Day 1 and Day 2 were extreme swings. Day 3, what have you got for me?
Speaking of the Heat, I rooted through the growing pains. I was there when it started, so I get to enjoy this now. Seikaly, Sherman, Rory Sparrow, Jon Sundvold, Pat Cummings, Sylvester Gray, Grant Long. It all started with that bunch, I kept the fire as they crawled their way to mediocrity. Glen Rice, Steve Smith, Willie Burton, Harold Minor, even Alec Kessler. Funny thing about Kessler: After Heat games, we'd frequently hit Mario the Baker in North Miami for pizza. On several occasions, Kessler would beat us to the restaurant. I realize he might not have played much those nights, but still. Anyway, when they put it together in Wade's second season with Shaq, I rejoiced. Now they're back as a super-team. I accept it and I won't be accused of bandwagoning (not a word).
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