We made it to California. I can’t believe it. Neither can Ricky. All the way here, he said, “Where we going?” “Calleeephonya?” “We going Calleephonya?”
It was a rough trip here with three messy diapers and two vomiting episodes–all courtesy of Deborah. I don’t really like handling toxic clean ups, but I admit there’s something satisfying about the mess. There is never a time where you feel like you child so desperately needs you and to get those wipes out and clean up her misery makes you kind of feel like a super hero.
I know I’m Deborah’s super hero. She rewarded me for my efforts yesterday by demanding that I hold her all day. I think that’s a reward.
Since the two little ones weren’t pool ready due to the flu, I took them to the tennis courts. Ricky loves tennis. And yes he’s only three. I toss ball after ball to him and he hits them back at me–sort of—and I go chasing after them. His attention span is remarkable. I think that three of our children donated their entire attention span to Ricky before they came to this earth. He played and played then watched another pair play, and then he wanted to play again. “Nope,” I told him. “We’re done.” Picture tomorrow. We’re still figuring out our set up.