Fervor

I pulled into the arrivals level of the airport, fumbling with my phone, trying to figure out how to find them.  I missed them.  I drove by them.  I had to loop around the airport again.

We stop at a Tim Hortons’ on the way home, because my bladder is about to burst, because the travellers need caffeine and sugar.  The parking lot is empty.  But as I open my door, a car pulls up right beside me.  I close the door as the car drives in to the spot.  “The entire damn parking lot is empty and you pull up RIGHT BESIDE ME?!”  I go to open my door again.  The passenger is opening his door. I close mine abruptly and sulk.  I wait until he is well inside before opening mine again.

I use the toilet.  I approach the counter.  I wait for a large group of people to order, including my friends from the car.  The guy in front of me LITERALLY TAKES 5 MINUTES to decide which donut he wants.   I am picturing reaching over and grabbing his neck and killing him slowly.  But then finally it is my turn to get coffee and try some pumpkin spice donuts, and don’t forget a couple of timbits for Callum.

Callum chatters the whole way in the car.  “Oliver’s jacket!”, he says, grabbing it.  “Cars!” “Blue bus!” “Trucks!” “Towers!”  He is so talkative.  He’s changed in 10 days.

We take the back roads. I am not prepared to deal with the rush hour 401/400 traffic. I’m usually more patient.

We swing by daycare, to get Oliver before going home. When I tell him who is in the car, he tells everyone at daycare, rushes out, and starts shrieking.  And doesn’t really stop.

Home now, peeling off clothes and shoes, and the boys are so happy to see each other, they hug purposefully and hard.  And then they run around shrieking some more, and jump.  So much running and jumping.

And then Oliver remembers that he needs his dad to change the lightbulb in the fixture in his bedroom and suddenly it is floods of tears and hysterics because an eco-friendly bulb is apparently NOT ACCEPTABLE to a 3.75 year old, despite the fact they are in every other light in this house.  IT MUST LOOK LIKE A LIGHTBULB.  From a book. Oh, the mania about this.

This is dealt with, Mark found some random old bulb, and then I start to make dinner, leaving them to play.

And then they start hurting each other, in between sharing toys, in between ripping toys from each others’ hands.

Dinner dissolves into rice being rubbed into the table top.  And meat and broccoli together is a squishy stress ball.

*

The house is quiet now; the storm has passed. I am the only one still awake.

WELL THANK CHRIST FOR THAT.