I love my kids. I love my husband.
But.
Sometimes, especially when we’ve been together literally 24 hours a day for nearly a week, I just need a little time to myself.
This morning, my husband is taking the kids to play with Grandma while I sit on the lanai and read for the two to three hours before my father-in-law picks me up this afternoon to join the rest of the family for a beach trip and then a seafood dinner out.
We devised this plan after we got to the gluten-free pizza place last night just to find that it was closed on Mondays. This plan carried me through the wee hours when my daughter fell off of the twin bed she’s been sharing with her dad onto her brother on the twin air mattress he’s been sharing with me. And it has, so far, carried me through the standard breakfast drill of typing one-handed while I nurse the baby, listening to my daughter complain that her cereal is too soggy and her banana too ripe, and trying to stop the baby who’d paused in his nursing long enough to pour the food from the dog’s dish into a colander he found on a low shelf.
One could argue that perhaps I shouldn’t try to blog during the breakfast drill. But if they did, they’d probably get yelled at.
53 minutes to go.
Imperfect Happiness 