The kids found my old wheelchair. Thousands of dollars worth of bikes, scooters and other various outside toys and none can hold a candle to a wheelchair. In a stunning display of sportsmanship, they actually took turns pushing each other down the bike path. Just when I thought the fun of the wheelchair had petered out, there they'd go again.
He wasn't doing it. He was waiting for me to put my camera down and shoot some hoops with him so he could watch me flailing around the driveway, doing my ape arm guarding moves and laugh at me.
She was totally into it. Except that waiting your turn is really hard when you're two. And since yesterday was kicked off by the mother of all temper tantrums that set of little aftershocks of screaming all day, waiting was a special trial for her. Always is.
Now she's happy.
While the kids were pretending to be handicapped (something we don't poke fun of around here, I swear), I was trying to capture the perfect shot of buds on my sugar maple. In March. I was also trying to pretend I didn't know them and was looking around for their mother. Surely she will come and put an end to these shenanigans soon.
Except that their mother was at the back door photographing their little sister who was pitching another temper tantrum, this one also about nothing, thereby offering no ready solutions but to grab the camera and snap pics of her angst as she pounded the glass.
Ok, here she's wicked pissed (thanks Tally) and screaming obscenities at me, like "Put the cramera down" and "Don't cake picture a me." There is also a lot of foot stamping going on, but it's so fast that you can't see it. You'll just have to trust me on this one.
Later after Lucy was in bed and equilibrium had been restored to the universe, Tess and Peter were still on the path pushing each other. This time with her in her bathrobe looking for all the world as if someone had dropped a little boy off with the directive of taking his poor, handicapped sister for a walk. Do it.
This was just before they came in the front door, wheelchair and all, thinking they would have races around the kitchen island. After cutting them off at the knees with a look of distaste and a finger pointed to the door, they took care of it. Except that later as I was tidying up the house before bed, I noticed that what they'd actually done is open the front door and give the chair a shove. It made it down two steps before tipping onto it's side half on the walk and half off. And since I still had one thousand, five hundred and seventy four things to pick up before I could sit down, I flirted with the idea of just leaving it. But since passersby would surely think we'd just given some poor handicapped person the boot by shoving their chair out the front door and slamming it after them, and since those same passersby would surely be searching our bushes for said person, and since having a front yard that looks like the producers have gotten things all set up for a taping of Jackass is not my dream, I picked it up.
This is me being real.