Transfers, trampolines, and tension

I spent the first half of the day running between three different schools, home again, stopping for gas, and finally making it into work just in time for lunch. All of this because my wife hadn’t really taken care of all of the transfer stuff. They needed a social studies book (which we forgot) and umpteen billion signatures before they would drop her from the previous school. Once I got that all done and dropped off my weirdo little ones, the counselor suggested that she just start tomorrow instead. Of course, my wife hadn’t answered my previous call and my mom wasn’t answering at home or on her mobile phone. I ended up driving just about all the way home before finally getting a hold of my wife. My mom did call back of course and felt horrible for forgetting to bring her phone into the store. Then I felt bad for getting frustrated because I, of all people, should know that my mom would still drop everything she’s doing to help out her kids.

The highlight of the morning: the counselor of the new school asking where “Dillon” was? The expression on her face described a woman longing for the cute little face of a child (younger than 3). Then it hit me and I had my awkward moment of the day. She was referring to my wife’s (new) friend’s little boy that she must have been taking care of while registering my child. Apparently he was really cute and running all over the place so I didn’t spoil it by saying I really didn’t know the kid, at all. My oldest daughter thought it necessary to explain to me that the counselor thought Dillon was my son. Egad.

So, this evening we had a good jumping session on the new trampoline. I have not launched any child high enough to leave the trampoline yet, but it’s been close. My youngest daughter is like a toothpick with hair that can jump like a grasshopper. Add a trampoline and me assisting by jumping just as she is coming down… it won’t be long before she is flying high over the swing set. Then, mean old dad made them clean up. What’s worse, he didn’t even let them watch TV. How they will survive, the tortured children that they are, I don’t know.

Fej.