Dear Brian...

You can come home now.

Seriously, it's ok.
I know it's much more fun to be in San Francisco than on Santa Cruz these days...well, less chaotic, anyway. But we miss you.
I miss you.
In the past few days I've become increasingly convinced that the boys have it out for me...they are conspiring, I'm sure of it.
You'll be happy to know that I took your suggestion this morning about pre-school drop off and put Jonny in the Maclaren.
Didn't work. He managed to scream and push himself hard enough against the straps that he was practically standing upright in the stroller. And before I could get to him, he had grabbed a child's jacket out of their cubby, thrown it on the floor and yanked down the sign-in clipboard from the wall.
So, yes...the stroller kept him from actually crossing the thresh-hold into the room and getting into the paint. You were right about that. Kudos to you. Have another round of scotch for that bit of advice tonight...on the company, of course...and while you're at it, see if they can swing my bill from Jonny's allergist visit. I mean, they can pay for your sushi and fancy drinks, I'd like to think they could maybe afford those scripts? I'm just saying.
(p.s. see #12 added to yesterday's list)

Anyway, pre-school.
At pick-up, on the playground, it was JONATHAN who got into fisticuffs with another child...all while trying to monopolize the monkey bars. He hangs--doesn't yet know how to cross them--but refuses to let go...at all. Ever. And of course this frustrates the age-appropriate population of kids lined up to cross the bars. What can I do?
I decided not to use the stroller for pick-up, so when we left the playground, he ended up running across the parking lot so fast I couldn't keep up. When I got to him, he just went horizontal on me and screamed so loud I just knew the ChildAbusePreventionPeople...wherever they were... were in earshot.
He's killing me, Brian. Killing me. And I would just love maybe ten minutes around dinner time where he wasn't fighting with Benjamin or climbing on something or dumping something in the toilet. I'd love five minutes to go to the bathroom.
Is that too much to ask?

And why don't boys play with dolls? Why don't they sit quietly and put pretend makeup on pretend doll faces? I could even take the "girl fighting" if it meant my kitchen ceiling wouldn't spring a leak on me. Or my toilet overflow. (we've lost two rolls of tee pee this week)

Ok.
Deep breath.
You are right, it will be Friday soon. And we can do this crazy job together.
But in the meantime, would you be ever so sweet and just not call me while you're away? I love you more than life and know all you want is to just connect and hear my voice, but I'm just afraid that if you do call anytime in the next 24 hours, you're going to find Joan Crawford on the other end, screaming about "wire hangers!!!"...instead of your fun-loving wife.

Until then, enjoy the Rice-a-Roni.