We had a nice Thanksgiving weekend. Really, we did. There was lots of good food and no family drama. We got some serious, slothful relaxation in, too: the night before Thanksgiving, at my brother's house, we drank wine, ate pizza, and watched five straight hours of Top Chef. I've decided I'm going to start talking to Elsa and Clio like one of the contestants to get them more interested in their food: "What I've done here is taken circular oat cereal, rustled it into a bowl and then quickly doused it with just the right amount of fresh, cold milk. Finally, I've topped it off with some thinly-sliced, ripe banana. Enjoy."
We also had twenty-eight glorious child-free hours together on the Maine coast, which we spent doing the sort of things we used to do way back when: browsing in shops, eating more frequently than is biologically necessary, talking about everything from our college days to our future plans to how Abraham Lincoln won the Republican nomination. (A. is reading Team of Rivals.) We were silly and stupid and flirty. And man, it was nice to go to sleep in a big, soft, king-size antique bed and not have to negotiate which one of us was going to get up with the girls in the morning.
Though I can't say I really *missed* the girls, by the time we headed back to my parents' house, I was eager to see them. They greeted us with bright smiles, said "Mommy Daddy here!", let us kiss them, and then proceeded to have total, screaming meltdowns. Both of them.
Video (not of the meltdowns) after the jump.
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