We’ve landed–not only in Chicago, but as of 11 a.m. yesterday–in our actual condo (we’re renting a place for a year to give ourselves time to learn about the neighborhood).
Initial reports are favorable. Our new complex is packed with kids. I know this because last night some eight or nine children of approximately The Six-Year-Old’s age streamed out of their respective buildings to converge on a green lawn in front of the complex around 6 o’clock last night. Hide and Seek was well underway when The Six-Year-Old and I arrived.
While the Six-Year-Old played, I chatted with several moms arranged around the perimeter of the yard. Turns out that the game wasn’t the result of an unusually fortuitous alignment of circumstances, but a nightly event. The Six-Year-Old came back from last night’s Evening Fete happy, muddy, and starved.
Unfortunately, I had been so busy unpacking, I’d completely forgotten to do any grocery shopping. Oops. Will have to do something about that today. The Six-Year-Old and I are down to our last strawberry. A strawberry we only have because Daddyo in his infinite generosity declined to eat it before walking to work this morning.
OK, so I exaggerated about the last strawberry thing. We had five. I may have been able to conjure up a glass of milk for The Six-Year-Old’s breakfast as well.
Still, the situation is clearly grim. Especially since The Six-Year-Old is wiping the last of the strawberries and milk from her chin as I type. The only other food substance I have in the house at the moment is a bag of raw sugar. And while The Six-Year-Old has valiantly offered to eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I suspect this wouldn’t be the merry summer picnic she envisions.
Off to the store we go.