I officially hate weekends

It's official. I live for Mondays. Oliver very nearly found himself listed on eBay today, but I fear I would have had to pay someone to take him. If this is the beginning of a new phase that lasts more than a week I will be putting together my letter of resignation as his parent.

After a trying early morning with lots of whining and not listening, we went to the zoo for the birthday party of a classmate at Oliver's old school. There were lots of old buddies that he mostly had not seen since last August. He was out.of.control, eventually making me want a time out myself.

And to make things really fun and interesting, my obstetrician was at the party. She didn't deliver Eleanor but saw more of my hoo-ha than any of the other doctors in the practice prior to delivery. She is very nice and any awkwardness was entirely in my head.

Oliver finally got to sleep, about an hour and a half later than usual for nap. Then he woke up crying, much too early. The rest of the afternoon was sprinkled with minor meltdowns, nose wiping, scraped palms from a wipeout in the street, and lots of not listening.

There are not enough chocolate carrots in the world to get me through the rest of this weekend if tomorrow is anything like today.