Not the rich other half, or the poor other half, but the other half that has two children. What’s the average for American couples now? 2.1 children? 1.9? Something like that. This week, I have 2.0 because 2.0 of my 4.0 are in California with my husband. The house is quieter. The laundry doesn’t pile up as fast. Meal planning is easier. But I sure do miss them.
My 8-year-old and 4-year-old are the ones on holiday, getting to eat a dazzling array of sweets and watch appalling amounts of telly at their grandmother’s house, and my 6-year-old and 1-year-old are home with me.
Here on the home front, baby Portia is on a campaign of devastation that reminds me of the credit card commercial where the Vikings (or was it the Mongols?) are trashing a department store Portia, battle-axe in hand, is making like a Valkyrie and my house is an Irish monastery.
Cordelia, my 6-year-old, is wonderfully helpful, as she always has been, but she’s also been expecting to be treated like a pampered only child in her sisters’ absence, so yesterday after I took her and Portia to the top of the Sandia Mountains on the tram, then to lunch at the restaurant of her choice, then to the public indoor pool (Portia was with the babysitter for that) where she went down the water slide about a hundred times and played “Drown Mommy” to her heart’s content, she wanted to know, “Okay, where are we going now?”
I guess maybe the other half works hard, too.