Sometimes, I start thinking about bedtime somewhere around breakfast. Ahhhh, bedtime.
And it's not just the footie pajamas-- it's the quiet, really. The time to sit down in front of the TV with a glass of wine and scream obscenities at John McCain, for example. Or to read blogs. Or update my Facebook profile 11 times a minute.
Today, I first started fantasizing about bedtime around the lunch hour, when Harry escaped from the mall playground and ran, with one sock foot and one bare foot, all the way past the Verizon kiosk before Jack and I could catch him. Then he scooted on his back on the filthy mall floor from Zales all the way to Williams Sonoma. Then Jack pooped. Loudly. Then-- after I coaxed Harry back to the playland and found his sock and changed Jack's pants and bribed Harry into his stroller with a Happy Meal-- we went to the Apple store in time for our Genius Bar appointment and found ourselves in line behind an older lady with an entire page of shakily written questions-- some highlighted even-- and she was, of course, determined to get through them all. I almost cried. Then Harry started whining to get out of his stroller and explore the iMac display so he could "work on his blog," which was hilarious enough to help me buck up and play a game of peekaboo that was not only rousing enough to keep them both interested but also annoying enough to move us up in the line.
And now my computer is fixed-- the faceplate was cracked and also stained with mustard. Now it is crack free and clean, like Jason Mewes.
They are totally high fiving each other and thinking "Ha! We almost sent her off the deep end today. Nice work, bro, and we'll try it again tomorrow," but that's okay, because thank goodness, they're in bed.