We are having an off day. Saturdays are always already “off,” but this one is even weirder than all the rest.
Jack has been a bear—a tired, grumpy, flailing bear who would not nap, despite me lying next to him on my bed for a very long time as we watched a sixty minute youtube video of a woman vacuuming her living room carpet. He soaked it up. It was stimming without the actual stimming. But he never did sleep.
I fell asleep for a few minutes. When I woke up, she was still vacuuming that rug.
Charlie and Truman were balls of anxiety, first that Santa was going to drive past our house on a fire truck at an unknown time, and second that they might somehow not hear the blaring sirens and the booming honk of the horn, and thus miss Santa Claus. And so they screamed about warm clothing and being outside and hearing the siren but not actually seeing Santa.
We saw Santa.
We took Jack on two long rides. We drove Henry to merit badge class and back. We did laundry.
Jeff and I went on a date, which ended up being a bizarro world version of a regular date. Dinner was meh. I couldn’t finish it. We left forty minutes into a disappointing movie. We came home to Jack asleep on the couch well before bedtime (meaning it will probably be a dance party in the wee hours) and Charlie losing his mind over every single thing.
Aside from seeing Santa, the day has felt like a really really bad dream sequence.
What do you do when you have a day that isn’t outright tragic, but which distorts reality into a circus freak show?