For some reason (maybe a long summer of hiking mountains with the kids), I’ve been reading book after book about and by mountaineers. It turns out there are hardly any books about the White Mountains, except for guidebooks, history books and one exceptional collection of harrowing tales called Not Without Peril by Nicholas Howe.
So I’ve been spending a lot of time in the library picking out books that are mostly about the Himalaya. Believe me, I will never set foot in the mountains of Asia, so I’m reading these mainly in disappointment that there’s hardly anything to read about the mountains I am familiar with.
Here it is, the big trip report I’ve been trying to write for a couple of years now. When Riley and Connor came into my life, I was hoping to spend as much time as I could playing with them and writing about it. Since then, it’s been about 90% playing, 9% planning to play, and 1% writing. This is that 1%.
It turns out a three year old doesn’t play much baseball or chess. They like playgrounds, especially the ones near busy roads they can run into and basketball courts they can invade to disrupt the game. We go to one with a 40″ high chain-link fence, which my kids regard as more of a suggestion than a barrier.
These aren’t baloney babies. These are the kids who are so insane that their parents often get glared at by others. I’ve even crafted a response for when someone opens their mouth to me: “I’m sorry, we’re doing the best we can.” Then if they keep talking, I can say “I told you I was sorry, so now you’re just being a douchebag.”