Triumph

Triumph! I have just left the Muralist in the Land of Nod. This is a task unmastered by Hercules, putting a two year old to sleep. Challenging even on ordinary days, today required the talents of a titan. Boast, moi? Why, yes, I am.

After taking three children thru an epic 5 hour stint of legal forms, doctor's visits and consultation with a nutritionist, we rounded out the afternoon with a visit to thier cousin's house for 90 minutes of endless physical activity and a trip thru the grocery store. Home again, jiggity jog, to romp with the dog until dinner was ready. Dinner eaten, we find jammie time approach-eth. "But wait!" cries the Verbalist, "Where is dad?"

"Yes, Dad!" echoes the Muralist, suddenly realizing the pole star in her sky is missing.

I explain for the millionth time, "Daddy went on a trip today, he'll come back on thursday."
After a quick recap of when we are (tuesday), how many days until thursday (two), where in relation to the major week markers for them (Sunday school and martial arts class) the Verbalist, while concerned, seemed to understand that Dad was not waiting forlornly by the ferry terminal for us. He seemed to think this was an angle to extract promises of a Darth Vader action figure - "to surprise Dad when he comes home, I'll let him borrow it."

The Muralist is less sanguine. The pater familias is who puts her in bed, supplies drinks of water, and general reassurance. The Verbalist retires after reading a book to his bear, the Muralist with a barbaric yawp, a primordial screech. Howard Dean has nothing on this kid. Wailing, kicking, crying, blowing bubbles out her nose, she will not let her head touch the pillow. It is at last inevitable, the pillow wins.