Lovely summery days here. We took a walk this past weekend and passed through a playground in one of our local city parks this past weekend, and we were pleasantly surprised to see they had put in a special adaptive swing. I suggested to A that we try putting Baby E in it right then, because fun! Excitement! He’d never swung before.
Unfortunately, we couldn’t figure out how to use the damn thing. I keep thinking stuff for E will be easy to use, but in reality, I need to seek out instructions either on the Internet or from our therapy team before we can use even a freakin’ swing.
It’s not a big deal. I can swing him in my arms, and he’ll probably enjoy himself just as much. But it also served as one of those drops in the bucket. This particular drop I like to call oh, right, fuck spontaneity as usual. And I am used to being pissed about my lack of spontaneity — see also ulcerative fucking colitis. But my bucket’s pretty close to overflowing these days; too many Facebook kid-post things, too many normal/healthy kid-in-the-flesh things, too many well-meaning people, too many, too much. Or maybe this month my bucket was prefilled with the house-selling and buying and general moving stress deluge. To really abuse this metaphor, I also can’t tell whether or not this damn bucket has any holes in the bottom, or a tap or a drain or whatever. It sure ain’t being emptied.
A. is picking up a lot of the slack. It’ll be my turn next month. To cope in the meantime, I got a whole bunch of terrible and not-so-terrible movies from the library. Tonight: Quigley Down Under.