Dads to the Rescue

I have no pictures to post because there is, blessedly, not a soul in this house besides yours truly. Oh, and one overweight feline.

I have been feeling sick and grumpy for what feels like weeks. Decades, maybe. The endless, gray late-winter days all running into one another with no clear beginning and ending. . . Well. Those don't help.

The first part of the day, no problem. That's when Eliot has preschool or gymnastics or goes over to a friend's house to play. We eat breakfast, hurry around town, run to the library. Home for lunch, most days. A short battle, a short nap. Then. Oh, then, Heaven help us.

This boy does NOT want to go outside and he does NOT want to make play-dough and he does NOT want me to tell him he can't whing daddy's slippers at the cat. It's March, the mud on the ground is vicious enough to swallow a boot as it tries to masticate your leg, and every branch of every tree is the same, wretched shade of bare. We used to go out in the afternoons. You know, a post-nap romp around camp. Stomp in a puddle or sled down a hill and get all red-cheeked and breathy. Not in mid-March in the North Country. All Eliot wants to do is say "no."

So, I was stunned silent when, at lunch, Toby mentioned that one of our camp neighbors wanted to come over after work with his little girl and collect Eliot for his "Afternoon Romp Around Camp." Just, you know, for the heck of it. And, get this: Toby had already planned on taking Eliot over to this guy's house for a play-date after dinner.

Let me lay this out for you. One dad was going to take my three-year-old off my hands for the post-nap whine-and-fuss hour. Then ANOTHER dad was going to whisk him away for the duration of the pre-bed witching hour. All I had to do was get dinner on the table in between. Wow.

I love camp dads.