We just had a perfect weekend.
Saturday, we braved the Brooklyn mommy hoards to get 'official' haircuts for the boys (e.g., not by someone wielding too-dull shears, wrestling with a squirmy toddler, and realizing at that most inopportune moment that boy hair is hard.) I swallowed a gulp when I realized the buzz of that clipper was the bell tolling for babyhood. (Not to be overly dramatic or anything. Luckily the hands-flailing, legs-jerking, ear-piercing temper tantrums later in the day made me remember they truly are only one and a half. )
Then an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum - complete with grandparents for extra hands, and the chance for hubby and I to actually see the Morandi show. Many, many, many bottles. Many, many bottles. Many many Bottles.
We made our way home (no traffic) and, for the capper, made it on time to a babysitter-enabled cocktail party with real wine and real adults. Discussions about issues. Politics. The economy. New York real estate. Recent supreme court hearings (ok, so it was a bunch of lawyers.)
But the real coup d'grace was Sunday morning: no adult intervention required until 7:51 a.m. I cracked an eye, rubbed out the blur as I tried to read my bedside clock, and couldn't believe it.
Day two of the perfect weekend: the Bronx zoo, good naps and an impromptu play date (complete with hallway hide-and-seek, three-in-a-tub, and apple crumble.)
Of course I'm exhausted. But I'm not sick anymore. Neither are any of my boys - including hubby. I've finished (almost all of) my holiday shopping. The fridge is stocked. And our cleaning lady comes on Mondays.
Truly the planets have aligned.