For single and childless folk, holiday weekends are times to get away and escape a day or two of work. For those of us with school-age kids, it's an added day that we have to entertain the rugrats instead of letting the teachers do it. To add insult to injury, places that we depend upon for weekly rounds of kidutainment, like the public library, close all weekend long. Even getting some chores done -- like the haircut Archer needs -- have proven beyond our powers, as service establishments shut their doors in our faces and fire up the barbecues.
So we've made do with a rather steamy playground visit and a largely unnecessary Target run to get the kids out of the house. Tomorrow, though, we've got bookings -- a picnic by the lake and a birthday party -- backloaded in the late afternoon. Zilch for the long, long morning, though. Probably another trip to Target for birthday presents (nothing like going on a whim to produce three or four more trips, since you have no idea what you really need to get), maybe a stroll down the Tucker Creek trail, and lunch at some establishment too strapped for cash to be able to close down for the holiday.
And then le deluge. Tuesday Archer and I are back in school, both kids have their yearly check-ups, and Noel will be making final preparations to fly to Toronto early Wednesday morning for his annual TIFF vacation. 10 days, 2 kids, 1 grandma (for 4 of those days), 4 schools (Archer's, mine, and 2 different ones for CG depending on what day it is), 10 breakfasts, 8 sack lunches, 9 what-am-I-going-to-make-for dinners, 13 drop-offs, 11 pick-ups, 18 bedtimes. Number of wet or soiled underpants, toy crises, trips to the emergency room, etc. yet to be determined. We've been mentally preparing ourselves for a week -- Noel to leave (he's been collecting clothes and toiletries for his suitcase since this past Wednesday) and me to stay (rehearsing as I walk to school the order in which I need to take the kids to their various destinations for maximum timeliness, and resolutely refusing to think about things like dinnertimes).
Since I'm still enthralled by my polygamy memoir -- in which the writer spends months at a time in Mexican adobe huts caring for the 25 children in the plural brood on her own, while the other wives and her husband work in the States -- I'm not inclined to exaggerate the difficulties I will face. Nevertheless, I'm sure the burden will be quite enough for my pampered behind.