And a partridge in a pear tree

This week is our week with the boys. Our summer is, like most things in our household, scattered to the wind, since Corey have 20 days of advanced training in July, I'm taking a trip to Arkansas to spend a little QT with Em and the Handsomes, and we're moving to a bigger apartment in August. So for the first part of the summer, we put the boys in summer camp at the Y. It works perfectly because it's near Corey's work and he drops them off and collects them. Today, they were going to the zoo. At the end of the day, when you ask them what they did at camp, they can only remember one thing, so it sounds like they spent the entire day swimming or playing kickball.

When I say that as fun and fulfilling and heartwarming (I just spelled that heartworming, think I have d-o-g on the brain?) the weeks with the boys are, and how we spend the entire week without them talking about the funny shit they do, I truly mean that. I also truly mean that my house is apeshit crazy every other week, and it's unfortunately Murphy's fault.

Murphy must be good practice for how discombobulating having a baby is going to be, and here's hoping he's going to be peeing and pooing in the designated places long before 2011. He goes berserk when the boys are in the room with him--he loves his brothers and wants to bite their toes, pull down their shorts and lick their faces. This sends them into squealing fits, which excites him even more, to the point beyond which we could hope for him to communicate the need to piddle, so he goes on the floor. Not only that, he won't even eat if they are in earshot.

It's absolutely precious, and it makes me want to run fah, fah away. Corey and I are getting up there in years (him first) and it's completely overstimulating and results in everybody going to bed early because the Parents need to sit quietly on the couch and have adult beverages as early as possible after getting up early to get everybody out of the house on time, working 9-10 hours, cooking supper, feeding the brood, stepping on the dog, stopping the squealing, bathing, packing up for the next day and getting up in the middle of the night to take Murphy to potty.

You should see my laundry hampers.

The only one who delights in every second of this is Lily. She feels that this havoc is my atonement for throwing a husband, two kids and a dog at her, when she was perfectly happy being the only companion.