Recovery

We've only now begun to recuperate from New Year's Eve.
Sigh.

Not that we went to any parties or drank ourselves silly.

I mean, we did drink, just the two of us, which makes us seem a bit sad and alcoholic I guess, but it was really the fault of the teenagers next door with their batch of fireworks that did the trick.

 I feel like Scrooge:  I hate New Year's.
Can't remember ever actually having a great New Year's Eve.

All hell broke loose just before, and then again, just after midnight.
The first round of fireworks woke Son#3, and then the second round woke Thing#1 and Thing#2.

I refused to go outside and congratulate the neighbours on a new year, so I sat with all three boys in the windows looking at the fireworks.
We ooh-ed and aah-ed.

Unfortunately, Thing#1 and #2 don't sleep late when they go to bed late, so the husband was up early the next morning.
Son#3 and I slept until 10 a.m.
(Did I mention my husband is the best husband in the world?)

On January 1st we went to the beach for about 33 minutes.
It's an hour's drive, you know.

But then someone (I won't mention any names) threw a tantrum, then the husband and I threw tantrums and I said we're packing it in.
Here they are, just before Terminal Impact:

Blissful silence in a tense car followed us home.

But, it was lovely weather.
I drank great coffee.
Everyone (except us) was friendly.

It could have been worse.


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