Sure enough, when I pulled into her driveway, I shut the engine off and could hear Son screaming bloody murder inside. (Son has some pretty fierce separation anxiety at times, you see.) "He hates it when she leaves," the sitter's husband said. "When he throws a fit like that, we all just ignore him."
"So do we," I said.
I carried Son out to the truck and got him into the carseat without incident, which was a refreshing change from the normal course of events; most times, harkening back to that "separation anxiety" deal, he'll throw his head back, lock his body up and refuse to be buckled in, which often turns a 30-second task into something a little longer. Last night, though, he offered no resistance, which usually means a good trip home.
About halfway home, after grabbing some grub at Wife's request, my MP3 player kicked up the song "Roam" by the B-52s - a vastly underrated song if there ever was one. The Time Capsule version of the song (a slightly different version from the radio single - I believe it was re-recorded for the compilation) is sung with such zest and fervor that I sound pretty foolish singing along. (No comments from the peanut gallery, please.) This doesn't preclude me from clapping along with the chorus, and when I did (slapping my leg so that I could keep one hand on the wheel - hands on either 2 or 10, says me, althout 3, 9 or 12 are also acceptable), Son handed me his sippy cup and, aping Daddy, also slapped his leg along with the chorus. I'd like to think that it's because "Roam" makes him as happy as it makes me, but I doubt it.
The weekend turned out to be pretty uneventful. Friday's storms were for naught, at least in my little corner of the world. We did manage to get the carport roof unwedged from the trees by hooking a chain to it and pulling it down with our riding lawnmower; the ensuing crash threw such a fright into Son that his bottom lip quivered for a solid 10 minutes afterward.
Oddly, the insurance adjuster did not pay an actual visit to the house, but instead made an estimate over the phone. This boggled my mind, for whatever reason, and made me wish Wife was a little less honest in dealing with them. I don't reckon it would have mattered anyway; unfortunately, our insurance company knows the truth: the carport/shed combo was apparently constructed by the firm Half-Ass and Half-Ass.
Son recovered from his scare later in the afternoon:
In celebration of the pleasant weather, we got his trike out. He's at the point where his legs are still a hair too short to pedal, but too long to push it along with his feet without squatting uncomfortably. Since his energy is apparently boundless, though, he doesn't complain. (Except when it comes time to go back inside.)
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