The status report from Jenn's place:
The youngest is sick (yet again) with a barking cough. Sounds something akin to a TB patient. Might be why I get strange looks on the tram when I take him out in public.
The middle one is on emotional overload. Should she go to the Winter Ball tomorrow night for her middle school or not? Yes, no, yes, no, maybe. If only she had something to wear. Fairy Godmother? Anyone?
The oldest is copping a 'tude. His chores undone, his schoolbag tossed carelessly in the hall. Seems like it might be high time for a holiday from school.
The Dad is fine by all reports. He doesn't sleep much lately. He says it's beginning to feel normal.
The Mom is holding it together, albeit by narrow threads. Good thing Mom nerves are strong as spider silk.
And so, no good blogging to be done tonight. I shall put off the report of all things Sinterklaas and promise you that forthcoming. I will however leave you with this pre-pakjesavond conversation. It might make you giggle.
That's a good thing.
"Your stuff? What stuff?"
"You know, my gift and my poem which you're going to write yourself."
"Awwwww, I don't want to write a poem."
"But I'm no good at writing poems, can't you write one for yourself?"
"Nope. I wrote all the others and it's kinda lame if I have to write my own. That's your job this year."
"I just don't think I can do it."
"And yet, you must."
"So this poem that I HAVE TO write for you, does it have to be long? Is it supposed to rhyme?Can I write it in any format I want or are there special rules?"
"It can be anything you want, it just has to be a poem."
"Anything I want?"
"Cool. So I can write a haiku?"