I know! I’m all, “I love you, baby,” and then I go and disappear. For a week! No, eight days!
It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s just—it’s me.
My mind is not working right these days. I seem to be afflicted with the particular brand of insanity that occurs when you spend your weekends trudging through crappy house after crappy house and then finding the one house you like and then bidding on it and then not getting it and also you’re preparing to leave the country for six days. Wait, where are you going? Denmark? Finland? Close enough.
I’m trying to juggle way more things than a person can reasonably be expected to juggle, and I’m not a good juggler. Really. I have serious coordination issues. Meanwhile I have this little boy here with me whose idea of hilarity is to sing, over and over, “Dinah won’t you blow/Dinah won’t you blow/Dinah won’t you blow your BUTT BUTT BUTT.”
Which actually is pretty funny.
Henry has really had it up to here with me. So what else can you do when you have a crazy mother but insist that you go RIGHT NOW to see the crazy dancers?
And after you’re done admiring the craziness of the crazy dancers, you go to the Egyptian Wing, where you tell your mother all about how the mummies are wrapped-up people who have been wrapped up by other mummies. Or mommies? Unclear.
And then you make a ruckus in the “echo room,” which is actually a room full of Rodins, most of which don’t appear to be enjoying the ruckus one bit.
My next post will be from Amsterdam. Six days without Henry and Scott and Charlie the Dog.
Can I handle it? Will I never want to return? We shall see.