where wildly different is perfectly normal
But I’m not dead yet!
But I’m not dead yet!

But I’m not dead yet!

Ahh, Monty Python, what would we do without you? Quotables, songs, dirty jokes, ye maketh the day go faster. Tom and I saw Spamalot in Chicago, in it’s pre-Broadway run. In fact, we saw the third show. Ever. Funny show. It’s coming to Denver this year and we already have tickets. But we got to see it with the Original Broadway Cast. Oooohhh….

I realized the other day that I had fallen off the face of the blogging earth. No big reason why, just did. Apologies. But my to-do list is under 10 items every day (though that may be due to me obliterating the memory in my pda and having to start from scratch and not due to something like, say, industriousness) and I’m much less stressed. February being over has nothing to do with it, oh no. {snort} I hate February and I’m glad the shortest, stinkiest month is over for another 11 3/4 months. Daylight savings hits this weekend, it’s nearly 60 degrees outside, and I’m one happy camper.

I received the news that the Thursday Thirteen is back up and running (calloo, callay, she chortled in her joy). If I get off my tush and get on it, I may actually have one up today. But I have to leave in 13 (ooh, coincidence? I think not!) minutes to run carpool and since I have to get J up from his nap and pee, I’d best not do it now. But allow me to say this one little thing:

Single parents deserve a shitload of credit for not leaving their children out on the doorstep for the wolves.

Tom did a lot of traveling the last couple of weeks (and that is probably the reason why I didn’t write much. I had a lot to gripe about, didn’t feel like griping, and oh, really didn’t care to broadcast to God and the whole internets that my husband was out of town!) and I am ever so glad he is home. He wasn’t even gone that long, or that much. Just enough that I wanted to repeatedly slam the front door on my head until the commotion behind me stopped or I passed out, whichever came first. Thankfully, he returned just in time.

Where am I going with this? If you know of a single parent (notice I didn’t say “mom”, dads get it hard too), offer to help. No, wait. I know I’d rather chew my liver out than ask for help, or accept an offer of help. Tell the parent how you’re going to help and then follow through. Take the kids for a few hours for a playdate so the ibuprofin kicks in. Something, anything. If the aforementioned single parent has a spouse in a war zone, you must help him/her. It’s only right.

And now I really have to pee (yes, TMI, too bad), J is still sleeping, the wind is suddenly hitting hurricane force (where’d that come from?) and I have to get three wild and crazy kindergarteners. TA!

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