It is noon here and the boys are out like little lights. The time change has been somewhere between slightly annoying and alarming for us.
It is safe to say that our oldest son is NOT a napper. He hasn’t been a napper for a very long time and he likes it that way, so when he crashed out on the last leg of our journey and woke up on the couch at around 8 p.m., it took some convincing that it was evening and not morning. The sun was going down, not up. He did not find this amusing.
We decided to take a walk around town to stretch our legs and get some air. It was still light out and the streets were quiet apart from the lone runner and reluctant dog walker (and the bus, but I’ll get to that later). I wondered out loud where everyone was on this lovely evening and my husband informed me that it was 10 p.m. on a Sunday night. Ah, summertime at the 53rd parallel. We took in the town’s winding streets, read the announcement board, chuckled at the sign posted at the double-gated railroad crossing that instructed drivers to ‘phone ahead’ if driving a slow vehicle or carrying animals, and then proceeded to get buzzed by a double decker bus as we ambled along the skinny sidewalk on the main road–it missed me by less than 2 feet at 40 mph! Now I completely understand why men generally walk on the outside of a sidewalk and was glad that I had chosen that configuration with my son. We then commenced to declare the edge of the sidewalk as the “pit of doom” and forbid our children from wandering to close to the curb.
Our youngest was awake long enough to see the family of foxes in the field on the school grounds, but he missed the last half of our first adventure in England—falling into that sleep of pure exhaustion atop dad’s shoulders. We are not so much catching up on our sleep as it is catching up on us. We took turns switching the incredibly dense little boy back and forth between us, draping his floppy body over our backs and shoulders as we made our way…home.