Easterrific

Long weekends. The idea of them always sounds heavenly, exotic somehow, laced with promise and possibility and adventure. In reality, more often than not (in my world, at least), there are long periods filled with indecision and motivation-gathering and pro-and-con weighing, resulting in more time spent trying to figure out what to do than doing it, and then needing a nap. Flightiness is hard work.  

This weekend started on Thursday. There was an Easter party/egg hunt at which I was made a fool of by thirteen 4-year-olds who have no business being so good at Pin the Egg on the Bunny. (I overcompensated for the fact that every single one of them nailed that game by making the next one—Toss the Egg in the Bucket—excessively hard. I never claimed to be merciful.)



Then there was a trip to the mall with my son, mother, sister, nephews, and visiting aunt and cousin that resulted in a waking nightmare that only just turned out OK, and from which I am still reeling, four days later. Suffice it to say that my almost-2-year-old nephew might have a future as an Olympic sprinter. Or a kamikaze pilot. And that even in my third trimester of gestation I am capable of running and screaming in public when the stakes are high enough. (Such as preventing a baby’s suicide-run at the escalator, hypothetically.)

Then there was Easter itself, including a church service so packed out that we couldn’t even get in and had to watch it on a big screen in the small chapel next door. There was too much candy and not enough self-restraint. There was ham and casseroles and a coconut cake that never did finish cooking in the very middle. There was a little work, squished in between overeating and overnapping, while the hubby showed everyone up by taking little girl golden on a 10-mile hike.  

All of it wrapped up with a sugar-induced meltdown over just one bedtime story, oh the humanity and a much-needed marathon of The Office with one of my favorite people.

This morning Alex was not at all thrilled at the prospect of returning to school. He asked me to do my best to pick him up before naptime, please, and then wanted to know if he could have a couple of Peeps for breakfast. (I said no to both requests because I am MEAN, MEAN, MEANNESS PERSONIFIED.)

But here we are, at the head of another week, well rested if unprepared to buckle down and get stuff done quite yet, craving raw vegetables and mineral water to counteract the nutritional damage we’ve done the past few days.

Baby girl is 29 weeks today, giving me heartburn at every turn and making me work for the oxygen (they tell me she’s the size of a butternut squash now). Tomorrow we tour the hospital so I can start having flashbacks to Labor & Delivery 2005, and find new and time-consuming things to obsess over.