A Harse With No Name

In our early 20s, before we had children, the notion of getting up before nine in the morning on a weekend was so abstract, so completely removed from our experience, that wasn't even possible to dread it. Those early morning hours were nothing but a blurry memory from childhood road trips that began at dawn.

But now that our days--all of them--start at 6:30 or before, I have to confess: I love mornings. I do. It's get-things-done time. It's cool. There's no traffic. The people who are awake are happy (generally) and have purpose: joggers, bicyclists, old people strolling around. Kids are in a good mood, fresh, ready for anything.

So when we disregard this, when we try to squeeze in an adventure when we should really know better, well, we pay.

Yesterday, we paid by listening to Riis scream (scream.) and sob for 45 minutes while we were trapped in stop-and-go traffic on the 405 under the blazing August sun. It was our fault. It was 12:30 p.m.

We meant to go to the Studio City farmer's market early, when the sun is still cool and the crowds are light. But Josh got caught up in work, I caught up on coffee, and the morning got away from us.

So, it was 90-f-ing-million degrees when we got there, the kids were hungry and hot, and the sun was so bright I could barely make out the stalls at the market. Good times.

However, before the massive meltdown, we did have one shining moment. Riis spotted a pony-ride setup, and lunged out of the stroller, pointing wildly.

"Thees! I want thees!" she begged. "Harse! I want thees! Harse!"

She's going to be a horse weirdo, isn't she?