I'm seriously considering putting the boys to bed at 5:30p tonight. Although we've done a lot of fun things today, both are exhausted, and T and I are fried. In considering why we are thus, the best way to describe the past 11.5 hours is as a litany of inane arguments ("I want to hold the level"; "no, me!"), fatigue-related injuries ("I hate these chairs" as the angry response to running directly into one with his head and ear), subsequent tears/shrieks/desperate calls for ice packs only to give them back mere seconds later, and ludicrous demands minus any thanks. It is as if some horrible brat-monster has taken over the boys' minds; they look the same on the outside, and you keep wanting to just love them up, but they their brains urge them to say or do something totally unappealing, and you recoil as you might if a giant, ringworm-infected oaf was running towards you wanting a hug. Put a fork in me, I'm done.

I've got my first bunch of plums chopped and ready to go into the pot but this next thirty minutes might doom me to the couch for the rest of the evening. Blarg.