So I woke up abruptly at 5:00 this morning and realized that the groceries had been in the car for exactly twelve hours. Had to ditch the popsicles; thankfully, it had been an unseasonably cool evening, and everything else seemed OK. (I mean, nobody else in the world refrigerates eggs, right?)
We had set off last night just after 5:00, through the back gate, to our neighbors’ house for dinner without the dads (theirs on his way home from China on business; D merely in the UK) directly on returning from the pediatrician (Eleven now has swimmer’s ear on the other side) and the pharmacy (conveniently located inside the grocery store, so you can shop while you take a number and wait for them to package things up). Guess who forgot, as she was hurrying everyone out the back door, to go and deal with what we’d left out front in the driveway? Which is why I found myself there this morning, practically sleepwalking.
We were, of course, late for dinner, and as I was apologizing, doing my best to channel Pollyanna, I remarked that, in the scheme of things, it’s not really that awful a problem to be stuck with: to be able to take Eleven to a doctor, to have the insurance to knock the cost of the visit and the meds down to co-pays. (Insert silent rant about the inefficiencies and unfairness of the United States’ health care system here.) All of which I recited to myself again when we returned to the doctor this afternoon: Six’s coach pulled him out of practice this morning after he told her (over and over, apparently) that his ear hurt. Bad ear tally so far this summer: three. At least it’s cut down on the towel-washing a bit.
This time I had the presence of mind to bring some knitting: progress, ever so slight, has been made on Six’s Cedric Diggory Memorial Scarf. D’s back now, and I’m off on my own solo excursion for the next two days – and the scarf will be traveling with me. (And yes, I’ve printed out a copy of the TSA regulations which say knitting can be carried onto a plane, just in case.) Perhaps the scarf can have its own little travelogue, like the Harlot’s famous sock. We’ll see.