Left Behind

A. got up with Charlie this morning and hauled him downstairs. At 5:15 a.m.

Harsh, Charlie. Way harsh.

When I came down two hours later, Charlie was demanding "for-eh." That's the forest, obviously (or, okay, not obviously unless you're fluent in Charlie-speak, which no one really is). A. explained to Charlie that they couldn't go to the forest because he (A.) had to go to work. Charlie wasn't pleased.

So I started thinking, trying to come up with a place that I could take Cubby and Charlie later that would satisfy their lust for forest adventures while not breaking my pregnant back due to having to hike miles and carry a thirty-pound toddler half the distance.

This is when I realized something: My children have far surpassed me in adventurousness. There was literally nowhere I could think of going that wouldn't result in them plunging into creeks and up and down gully banks in pursuit of adventure. I can't keep up with my two-year-old and four-year-old.

That didn't take long.

We ended up going down to the beach, where they played an involved game of pirate ship and I sat in a chair. It's not the forest, but it works for me.