The house was so messy today. This by itself isn't worth mentioning, commonplace as it is, but the desparation about it was visceral today [the kudzu is winning! the kudzu is winning!] and it was a beautiful day outside so when E looked up at me and said, Mama, can we go for a walk?, M looked up at me just as quickly and begged, "can you take both of them?"
A walk with E doesn't last for more than 10 minutes unless she's in the stroller or up on my shoulders so we pulled out the Monster Truck of Strollers [two full rows! stadium seating!] and strapped both girls in and they and I took a nice, long walk. This story is not about how I pushed 87 pounds of child+child+MToS up and down the slopy sidewalks of our neighborhood for 40 minutes [you go, my triceps!] but about how they sang at the top of their lungs and chair-danced for the entire outing. And yes, pushing an 87-pound stroller is a little harder when its inhabitants are throwing all their weight side-to-side in a singing game.
I've been playing a lot of Passover music around the girls recently in anticipation of next week and as we rounded a corner and headed up the final hill toward home E was singing at the top of her lungs, Oh Pharaoh, oh Pharaoh, what do you say?/ And the Pharaoh said No! No! NO! I will not let them go! with her very own Pip of a little sister echoing no! no! no! nonononononono! Halfway up the hill when E repeated her line what do you say? and two women sitting on their front porch, very amused, waggled their fingers at E and responded "I will not let them go!" she dissolved in a spasm of shrieks and giggles [which sounds so much better than the usual S+G] that finally I could push the stroller in a straight line without fighting the lateral cross-currents of song swaying, but of course at that point we were only seven doors from home.
The heathens resumed their usual disregard for our civilization-building exercises just as soon as I got them back inside. Earlier in the day I had purchased the biggest rotisserie chicken that the store had had for our dinner tonight and I took it out of the fridge and began cutting it up and the imps were at my feet and between my knees begging for bites. Grabbing and grabbing and grabbing, my little wild things were eating the chicken faster than I could cube it. Ultimately, they ate so much of it that M and I could only consider it an appetizer, and had to go find other food for our meal. While they were devouring, though, all I could think of was just throwing the carcass on the kitchen floor and letting them feed like a pack of wolves. But I didn't, because M had just finished sweeping.