I was thinking that I may need a new category name here, soon. I mean, now that I am actually spending more time with Otto than with the television. People, I have shows on the DVR that I haven’t even bothered to glance at. Either I am in love or I am dying. Personally, I’m hoping for the former.
Oh, there are things to tell about the weekend, but I am too tired to tell it all tonight. Tonight you’ll get little more from me than “Weekend good. Like Otto. Have fun. Need more sleep.”
Of course that won’t stop me from saying exactly that in the most verbose way possible, anyway. I am nothing if not predictable.
It’s very odd to me that Otto could arrive on a Wednesday night and then I blink and suddenly it’s Sunday and I’ve forgotten to return the DVD we rented. Whoops.
My children have decided that Otto is a convenient plaything. I’m thinking that maybe the next time he comes here, I’ll go take a vacation, seeing as how I become invisible when he’s around. Oh, the novelty will wear off soon enough, right? But in the meantime, I’m sure I would enjoy a couple of days off.
(Except for that whole part about how I’d probably like to have Otto WITH me. That could be problematic. Details.)
Anyway, first there was his arrival, which was entertaining, because for a few hours there, I thought I wasn’t going to be able to get to the airport to pick him up. Nothing like a little last-minute adrenaline rush to get things started. Then Thursday and Friday there were various kid-things to attend to, not to mention all of those pesky work-type things that refuse to just resolve on their own. Imagine.
Thursday night the children clambered into my bed for our bedtime reading, and insisted that Otto join us. We four sat in the bed and read our chapter and then I shooed the kids off to brush their teeth while Otto went back downstairs and I turned the lights off and tucked the kids into their respective beds.
Friday morning, Monkey (as usual) bounded into the room at o’dark thirty and climbed into bed for a snuggle, and then sat up and looked around.
“Where’d Otto go?” he asked.
I pondered the possible answers to a question which implies that your 6-year-old expects to find your boyfriend in your bed. After all, that IS where he’d last seen him. And heaven knows that I could easily park any and all visitors and possibly most of the inhabitants of a small country here in my new bed without too much crowding. But, still.
“What do you mean?” I countered. “He’s probably still SLEEPING.” Again, Monkey looked around the bed a bit. (Wondering if he’d overlooked his sleeping form?) “In the GUEST ROOM,” I finished.
“Oh yeah!” he said, as if that option had completely slipped his mind. “There’s a bed in there, too. But it’s not as big as this one.”
Good of him to clarify for me.
Friday night we all cuddled up on the couch to watch a movie, and the children fought over the throw blankets and treated us adults like furniture. I’m pretty sure I still have heel marks in my thigh. Which is fine, seeing as how I’m used to it and all, but I do think Otto was an excellent sport about it.
Saturday we drove into a neighboring state and visited everyone in the entire world. Okay, maybe not EVERYONE. But most of them. And most of these people I’d spent time with, before, years ago, when Otto and I dated last time. Some of them hadn’t even known we were back together until a few weeks ago. So that was very entertaining. Most frequent comment: “Your HAIR!” Who cares that we managed to reunite after being apart for years? My hair is totally different than it used to be! (Although it’s probably more socially acceptable to discuss hairstyles than kismet.)
Today I alternated between saying, “I’m so tired” and “Don’t go home.” I’m sure Otto felt like a very lucky man, having snagged such a scintillating conversationalist. The petulant whining was just the icing on the cake.
I’m still tired but he went home and now I have to go back to the things that make up my days; working and cooking and doing laundry and packing lunches and saying “nobody touch anybody else” and missing him—even after I’ve just hung up the phone—because without him here, the time just drags.
At least I was able to come back from dropping him at the airport to discover that the cursed toilet was clogged again. That provided a good distraction for a while, because you cannot possibly feel lovesick with a plunger in your hand. That’s a fact.