The weekend where nothing happened.

Nothing.

This is the third weekend in a month that Russ is out of town, so Fiona and I are on our own here in Weimar. Now, in a town with no family, limited friends, and rainy weather, there is a short list of things to do with a five-months'-pregnant lady and a three- and-a-half year old. But we've made good stabs at it thus far. Fiona and I have spent our "girls only" weekends doing errands (grocery shopping, buying a frame for Fiona's artwork, going to the bank, etc), cooking (this weekend alone we made chocolate-chip cookies, quiche, and eggplant cutlets), relaxing (which means playing dress-up, Pretty Pretty Princess, Candyland, and reading books. It does not mean relaxing for me, although a rousing game of Candyland can certainly be good fun), arts and crafts (we've made lovely painting masterpieces, framed artwork, cut out snowflakes, and endless coloring book pages) and attempting to socialize (last night we took the train to Erfurt, went to a fun get-together at a friend's house, but by 9 pm Fiona was really ready to go home, and I can't say I blame her- she's 3, and there's only so much sitting around a table chatting she can take).

But to be honest, it's a long and boring weekend here and we turned the clocks back, which made it even longer. Saturdays are bearable because shops are open, but Sundays? When Russ is in town we struggle on Sundays, but at least there are two of us. The past few weekends I've considered going to church, but as the church is unheated (I cannot figure that out for the life of me) and Fiona's been fighting a cold, I decided a rainy walk to the church followed by an hour sitting inside an unheated building wasn't the best idea. For the same reason, I rejected a trip to the swimming pool and the indoor playground (all this swine flu talk has me a bit nervous about such a germ city, but without it, it will be a very long winter. I think once Fiona's cold is gone, I'll take her there. She'll inevitably get another cold from it, but we'll have an hour of fun first).

Saturday morning I came up with the bright idea to walk to the McDonalds at the train station (right up the street) and eat breakfast there. What preschooler (and to be honest, pregnant woman) isn't thrilled by the idea of McDonalds' American-style, processed and buttery pancakes? Apparently Fiona. Although she woke at about 7, it took me the better part of two hours to get her out the door despite the lure of the pancakes. By the time we got there, we were both tired and wet, not to mention hungry. The McDonalds at the train station serves Filet o' Fish and Big Macs at 9 am. Pancakes do not exist there. We ate a muffin at a coffee shop, but it certainly wasn't worth the effort.

My second strike-out was the idea of a bike ride. Today, after a long morning of decorating pumpkins (carefully chosen at the marketplace yesterday) and cooking up a storm, despite the cold and gloomy weather, I decided Fiona and I would take her running bike out for a little walk. We'd wander around, she could bike and (get tired enough to go to bed early even with the time change) hopefully we'd enjoy the fresh air. It was a repeat of yesterday. Fiona didn't want to get dressed, didn't want to go out, didn't want to ride her bike, etc. By the time I coaxed her outside, it was dusk. We got about ten feet before Fiona told me her bike wouldn't go. The tire was flat.

I'm sure, dear readers, you can imagine the ensuing scene. Despite her previous assertions that she wanted no part of the bike, the bike was now the ONLY activity that would make her stop caterwauling. I assured her that I am not qualified to change a bike tire (or pump it, or whatever needs to be done) and it would have to wait 'til Monday when Papa is at home. No luck. Fiona seemed convinced, there in the street in front of the nauseating-smelling recycling bins, that I could magically fix the tire. Then I lit upon a great idea. The scooter! The scooter left behind in the basement by the previous tenants (appropriate only for an eight year old or bigger, but it'd do the trick), purple and bejeweled and pink-streamered. The lure of the scooter did the trick. Up we climbed to get the key to the basement, down we traipsed to get the scooter from the cellar, and up came the scooter. Fiona loved its purple and sparkly glory. She loved riding it (surprisingly well) until about the spot where we realized the fatal flaw with the bike (those recycling bins again). The gorgeous scooter had a flat tire.

Round three. I've gotten her inside (with promises to fix the scooter later) and stopped the floods of tears with the promise of creating a butterfly mobile from the Mariposa book. It's been waiting for us since Granny left, and I know I have the thread and scissors. I sent Fiona on a search for the book (so I could clean the grease from both wheeled-torture-devices off my hands) and readied the supplies. This, I thought, will be a great way to spend a Sunday evening. We can make and hang the butterfly mobile, eat dinner (and maybe Fiona will actually eat the quiche, if I call it scrambled eggs), and head to bed. I've never looked forward to a Monday morning more. Alas, the weekend had one more surprise for me. The Mariposa book, with its untouched butterfly mobile craft, is in the back of the car. In the Altenburg airport, where Russ parked it for the weekend.