So I had a real, honest job this morning (oh, how I love people who pay me to write). (Ergo, yes, my love can be bought. And it’s not really that expensive.) And a good friend came and picked up my children and took them out for Slurpees (a fascination in my house since we avoid consuming food coloring, caffeine, excessive sugar and any shade of blue not found in nature) and doughnuts and brought them to her house.
Where she watched their screechy plays. Where she fed them snacks. Where she hugged hurt feelings, punished evildoers and mitigated disputes. She got bandaids, made mac and cheese, listened to soliloquies about the state fair and the state of the summer and the state of sheep in Uzbekistan, for all I know, because I wasn’t there.
I was here. In my office, in my blessedly silent house, but for the typing of my keypad and the occasional thwack of a Diet Coke being opened. Here, taking the dog for an extra walk, just because I like breezes and today is breezy. Here, making doctor appointments and finally canceling karate and doing the dishes. Here, taking a long, hot, totally uninterrupted shower. Here, where I am not flushing forgotten toilets or counting servings of fruit.
So all that nostalgia you read about yesterday? Screw it. Come on, school, come on come on come on come on...I am so much nicer when I get a teeny, tiny break from being a fulltime mom. Just a baby break'll do it.
Yes, that makes me a bad person. Very, very bad. Rotten.
And I’ll mull that over as I drink this margarita and finish my book.
Really. I promise.