There is no point to making plans with preschoolers around

We are having a lazy Saturday. We had a quiet morning of puzzles and playgrounds, and a little bit of handyman work around the house. This afternoon, Hubby rested while the kids and I hung out in our awesome (and matching) deck chairs outside.

When nap time was over, and just to be clear, it was only Hubby who napped, we decided to quickly buy a raincoat for Crazy and head to the park Crazy has been asking for all week.

The sports store parking lot was full, which was mildly terrifying because we hate people…I mean we hate crowds, but since people make up crowds, I don’t think it’s a completely inaccurate extrapolation. We parked at the very far end next to a fence. On the other side of said fence is an airport.

We went to get the coat that Hubby had picked out on Wednesday, the coat that Crazy had refused to buy on Wednesday. On Thursday when Squishy put on her brand spanking new raincoat, suddenly Crazy just had to have that raincoat. So back we returned today. We fully expected that he would change his mind again when he saw it and were both pleasantly surprised that he was still excited to get it. He also wanted the cross bow that was in the same aisle, but oh well, I guess you can’t always get what you want.

Before getting back in the car, we asked if the kids wanted to watch a plane land before we left. The two little aerogeeks were thrilled, and so were the kids. So we watched one, two, three planes.

Me – “Hey kids, do you want to go to that park you pestered me about all week?”

Kids – “No, we want to play in the gravel in this parking lot watching the occasional plane land and take off.”

So that’s what we did…for an hour.

Their favourite part? Well, that would be the emergency truck driving up and down the runway shooting off flares to scare the birds away.

They are now soaking in bubbles in our attempt to get the inch thick gross off of them after their play time in dirty parking slash runway ick.

Maybe we will make to the park tomorrow.


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