“That big lorry is called Max the dump truck, and the other one is his little sister, Pyjamas” Where on earth did he find that one?
Last week we were in Buenos Aires where I failed to make any progress at all on the paperwork front despite visiting two offices and trying quite hard, but we did take the kids messing about on the river;
followed by four days of team conference;
We celebrated my 40th (flip!) birthday here on Sunday;
Gonzalo came out of prison on Monday so they’ve been here all week barbecuing meat, receiving visitors, and fixing things around the house; finally the blinds in the dining room actually open, hoorah;
The car’s been in dock since Monday having the bent bits straightened (another hoorah) at the expense of the other guy’s insurance (triple hoorah), so I’ve been confined to riding my bike around the city rather than going out to the villages. There’s another bunch of people arriving tonight for the weekend. And I’ve been trying to sort out our forth-coming UK trip; programme is coming together, we should have a car, and I’ve started hunting for the things we need to stock up on. Underwear is a ridiculous price in Argentina! Searching ebay for “sports bras” comes up with a choice of search terms… do I want “sports bras” or “ladies sports bras”. The mind boggles. And that’s another week disappeared.
“We must go for a picnic and we must have pasta frola* and criollos** and apples” announced Joni. It seemed like a good plan, so Wednesday morning we bought the supplies and took off to Playa Grande for the day. This time Joni decided we should also we invite Daddy and Danny to come with us; last time Daddy was writing a sermon, and Danny was minus three weeks.
It was a beautiful sunny winter day, and the Playa Grande is absolutely stunning with its dinosaur skeleton trees, salt encrusted lunar landscape, and of course the flamingos. Really the only thing to do after stopping and staring (and eating pasta frola, criollos and apples) is to go for a walk and take lots of photos:
Joni also took some photos:
For some reason he found the sky very funny. Sadly when he’s articulate enough to explain, he’ll have forgotten why.
That was Wednesday. Today is Saturday, and right now there are a bunch of strangers cooking meat in our garage, don’t ask. Joni is happily playing with the strangers’ kids on the dining room floor. And the rest of us are trying to organise ourselves to go to Buenos Aires tomorrow. This is the furthest we have been and the longest we have been away since Danny was born, and looking at the pile of stuff on the spare bed, we’re going to need to hire a lorry. We hope to see some friends tomorrow, do a bunch of stuff between work and play on Monday, and then our team conference starts on Monday night till Friday. Hopefully catch you back here some time at the end of the week.
*Pasta frola; Argentina’s answer to jam tart except that the pastry is softer and sweeter. Imagine a cross between pastry and cake.
** Criollos; a traditional layered bread. They vary in name and character depending on which bit of Argentina you’re in. In Cordoba province they’re small pastry-like squares.
Dear Baby boy of mine
In your ideal world you would be surgically attached to my nipples. In our real world together you have two modes of being; one, you are in my arms, and two, you are screaming. To me, this means that I cook to a backdrop of you screaming, I eat with one hand and you under the other arm, I wash up to a backdrop of you screaming. I type with two fingers and you under the other arm, I light the fire to a backdrop of you screaming. I put the clothes away with you under one arm, I dress Joni to a backdrop of you screaming. I realise that you have no understanding of me as a person, but I am tired and my back hurts. I understand that you didn’t like being shut in the bedroom, but I figured that if I could still hear you screaming through two doors and a wall, then you were probably mostly OK. It has probably saved both of us from infanticide, and if I didn’t love you I wouldn’t do it. Believe me you are grateful, even though you don’t know it. Just don’t tell social services.