Hallelujah! The oven is fixed! It took the mechanic less than 15 minutes to fix it from when he walked in the door, and I had a batch of bread dough rising 15 minutes after he left. Now I’ve just got to make up for three weeks worth of lost baking time and all will be right with the world.

Not that things aren’t right with the world already. Because they are. Because we had a fabulous weekend. It was absolutely fabulous, and I am somewhat ashamed to admit that when I saw this weekend approaching as we crossed the days off the calendar, I was dreading it. There was too much to do, too many new things, too many uncertainties. Everything could go wrong. There were so many points at which meltdowns could lead to chain reactions which would have us all in a pile of tears before things were brought under control — probably by Micah. And it was pretty much a given that we would end up cranky and tired and ready for another weekend, which would be five long days away.

Oh, how I love being wrong!

As it turns out, a 14-mile run is the perfect way to start a busy Saturday, one in which we spent 3 hours scraping and repainting a single bench at Prospect Park (along with a couple dozen of our closest friends) before taking the train to Coney Island to watch the first baseball game two little boys would ever experience. Who knew it would be such fun to try to explain to a 4-year-old how a game of bats and balls and outfield and infield and fouls and strikes and bases works? Or to help a 21-month-old navigate the path between fascination and fear that appeared whenever the people dressed as chickens came in his line of sight? And don’t even get me started on the perfection of holding the giddy 4-year-old in my lap at the end of the game while the fireworks exploded on the field. (Squish survived the attack of the fireworks in his father’s arms and as far away as he could get without leaving the stadium.)

So Saturday was a surprising success, despite the drizzling rain that nearly spoiled our baseball game. But what about Sunday? Would rain ruin the trip to the lake we had planned months ago? Thunderstorms were forecast throughout the afternoon, but at 11:30, when there was more blue sky than clouds, we took a leap of faith and drove away from the city to a friend’s lake house, where Manchild spent four hours in the water, paddling around in his life jacket, lending some truth to his claim of being a swimmer. I cast a fishing line into the water for the first time ever, but came away with an empty hook every time. Squish, despite his fear of putting his feet in the sand, got a kick out of splashing. We all came away a little bit sun-kissed, but not burned, a little bit tired, but also refreshed by our time away from the city.

It was only after we were safely on our way home, dropping in on some friends who live just outside the city, that the thunder and rain finally showed up. We drove home, put the boys to bed, sat down to banana splits and patted ourselves on the back for a weekend well done.

At 9:00 this morning we rolled out of bed. Manchild was lying at our feet. I have no idea how long he’d been there. We’d slept more than 9 hours. It was Monday and all was right with the world.

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