We had another whirlwind weekend in Cincy. (And really, aren't they all whirlwinds? Every darned last one of them. Especially the ones where you're hurtling down the Indiana Turnpike for six hours at a time. That rather zips the time along.)
We had a great time with family. P.J.'s aunt had a lovely 60th birthday shindig (wherein my eldest child ate nothing but black beans and blue frosting and my youngest ate everything not tied down). There was a jaunt to the pool (wherein I realized that my eldest was fearless...and my youngest ate everything not tied down).
And after that pool trip? The extremely amped girls- after a teensy bit of coaxing- proceeded to crash hard into naptime. P.J.'s parents offered to hang out with them if we wanted to go do anything.
After the slightest bit of demurring, we locked eyes, grabbed the keys, and hopped into the Passat.
We rolled the windows all the way down, opened the sunroof with nary a thought of how much wind was rushing into the backseats, and cranked the music. Really. Loud.
And the playlist was full of completely inappropriate music that should really be called No Children Are In This Car.
The sun was shining, the wind was whipping, and we were screaming along with Super Mash Bros. It was awesome. This unencumbered-arms euphoria was made all the sweeter with the knowledge that a) the girls were fine, b) the girls were sleeping, and c) we were almost at the Gap Clearance Store in Hebron, Kentucky. (I really don't think this should diminish our cool cred at all. Besides, who among us doesn't require affordable tank tops?)
Some people just really don't let the whole "having children" thing affect their swagger.
And I'd like to meet them someday.