Thursday, August 19, 2010

Habitat for Humanity and the Retreat

The Diplomat went to a class overnight retreat this morning--the Fledgling Diplomats are having a sleepover in a place mysteriously called "The Woods." I wonder if it is in the woods? I am not sure what they are doing there, but I know for sure that there are Follies and a great bar (the Diplomat just called me from a basketball court (???) to tell me that "the party is just staring!)" So, if any of you ever wondered how diplomats get prepared for their crucially important careers, it is through Follies and overnight partying in the woods. Shocking.
I am not sure I have mentioned this, but the Fledgling Diplomats have happy hours almost every night. Thusly, I have taken a semi-offended stance on the subject and have started organizing the spouses and partners languishing in Washington, DC for a happy hour next week. We also need to prepare for our careers in the Foreign Service, you know.
Today I went for a day of volunteering at Habitat for Humanity in NE Washington. The day could not have started worse, really. I knew that traffic would be horrendous, so to make it there by 8 am, I wanted to start as early as possible. Then the Diplomat tells me he cannot take Son to daycare because the Magical Mystery Tour bus to the Woods leaves super early in the morning. He leaves after waking me up 46 times to ask me various inane questions regarding the location of his socks, and similar personal effects or to bang pots and pans and coffee mugs in the kitchen and I am pretty sure there was a bull there this morning that went through my formal china at some point. He finally leaves and 6 mins later my alarm goess off. Cranky as hell, I get up and try to print the Liability Release form for Habitat. Naturally, my printer would not print. No clue why. Just because.
Then I wake up Son, who is very excited to see me and his numerous cars. The problem is, he is unwilling to part with them in order to get dressed. He proceeds to have a tantrum and in the process butts me with his head on the right temple. I think I might have passed out for a sec. Dressed one way or the other, we run out of the door. The stroller is in the car so I am carrying him in my arms during the elevator ride to the garage. Once there, I cannot find my car. I run up and down the stuffy, humid underground passages, dressed in long jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt (rather than a barely there minidress, which is what I usually wear in hot DC), because of my Habitat work. 15 mins later, I realize that the Diplomat had taken the car out for an errand the previous night and did not tell me where he parked it. I make several frantic calls and finally an audibly excited voice informs me that he is already on the Party Bus and the car is 35 levels or so further down in the garage. Hurling copious amounts of profanities in his direction and teaching Son to say, "Daddy is bad," I find the wretched vehicle and swimming in sweat, drive off to the daycare. I dash inside to leave Son, only to be stopped by the flegmatic guard at the door who demands to see an ID. With blood-shot eyes, I run back into the car, bring the blasted ID and burst into the classroom 20 mins later than I had intended. Son decides that I am leaving him forever, so he clutches at me with every fiber of his body. The daycare lady unglues him from me and I leave over his screams for dear life. Wow. With a morose expression, I drive off to serve the public.
Now, Son is in bed, and I have some nice, quiet time. I need it. Goodnight, Ballston.

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