Domesticated

Dratz! The children did it to us this time. Docile like camels beaten in the dessert sun, we were officially domesticated.

As sleeping in on the weekends has become just a phantom of my immature adolescent angst, weekends have become the equivalent of weeding the backyard; a cruel must. It takes a healthy good hour to get the family out the door, which essentially means nagging Hunter to “please” finish his breakfast followed with a mild case of power struggle when brushing his teeth, than onward to peeing in the potty. Meanwhile, Stevie’s screeching her sweet little lungs out, because she’s on her stomach and she’s not down with tummy time. Essentially, she's not down with receiving the short end of the stick. In the back end of the house, Shane’s wrestling with his obsessive compulsive disorder and ruthlessly losing to the mess in the kitchen. I have been accused of dabbling in the dawdle of my wardrobe cohesiveness, thus my circus juggling act ensue.

Fifty five minutes in and a few toddler melt downs later, we were on our way to Sunday Streets, a safe, fun, car-free place for people to get out and get active in San Francisco neighborhoods. We jumped on 280 South and were well on our way. Too add more noise to the raucous, Chloe and Oliver, our two dogs yelped as they were detained for the journey. Shane dearest father and husband boasts “equality,” thought it was unfair to abandon the dogs at home. We had a truck load of love transported for the weekly Kitchen family day. Ambitious.



The Great Highway was blocked off from Sloat onward, I strolled Stevie and Shane rode his bike with Hunter as tote. The air was warm and delightful. A cluster of kids whizzed by with the fury of their training wheels as their parents faint voices begged them to slow down. The sun gradually burned off the fog and all was good in the world as Stevie looked back at me. Bonding has it's rewards.




At the Lincoln intersection, the sight and sounds of children were apparent. We had arrived at what's was essentially the "kid zone." The man with the monkey and organ grinder entertained the children. Hunter immediately wanted off of the bike to meddle in the playware provided by the YMCA. We parked ourselves in the median and joined in the festivities. Hunter mingled and meshed with everything plastic. Shane and I exchanged smiles as my heart glopped with goodness and my insides were aflutter with butterflies.


We were a block away from Park Chalet and our thirst required immediate quenching. We parked the stroller with a snoozing Stevie and spread our picnic blanket. I sipped from my glass of Prosecco and snuggled with my sweet husband as we paved our memories of our children brick by brick. In all the warm weathered goodness, the mild ocean breeze, and the crowd of friends and families that surrounded us, I couldn’t help but feel choked up.



This is Shellie, mommyhood now I know what the fuss is about, back to you Bob at the studio!