Tonight I went to a neighborhood party and it was actually fun! Nothing crazy happened. We ate, drank, talked and laughed. Neither of the boys had any kind of meltdown, they both ate something and neither of them got into any kind of scuffle with any of the other dozen or so toddlers at the party.
They’re just getting to that age when the two of them can each play and have enough direction from us to be “good” boys (or at least have the potential to be).
So I’m happy. I’m just happy that we could be at a social gathering, that I could talk to a few people without interruption, that my boys played by themselves a little without any controversy or tears, and that my husband was so helpful. It may not seem like much to some but to me, it was a monumental evening. It’s the little things that make me happy these days.
A Promise Is A Promise
Every couple of weeks I rethink my original promise to write every single day. I’m not sure it makes sense. I’m happy that I’ve pushed myself to keep my promise and write something since the first day I started blogging but I sometimes I think I’m doing a disservice to some of my posts to just give them one day as THE post. This dilemma reminds me of the Hollywood mantra…you’re only as good as your last movie.
Well, bloggers seem to be judged by their last post and if that’s the case, I’m in a pretty sorry state. Writing every day means that I can’t give any one post that much time or thought. In fact, I write the vast majority of my posts in about 20 minutes between putting the kids to sleep and passing out from exhaustion. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve found the challenge of writing every day exhilarating. It has forced me to look at a blank screen every single night and through shear will come up with something at least mildly coherent to share. You see why I’m conflicted. Since I can’t decide on my own, I’d like to ask my loyal readers (the handful of you that I will love forever for reading my blog), what you think about this dilemma? Should I stay with EVERYDAY?
I Know It’s True Love When You Miss The Dirty Sock Piles
Dave came home last night from a four-day business trip. The kids lost their shit when they heard the front door open and were equally excited with all of the little goodies he’d brought home for them: mini bottles of shampoo, lotion and bars of soap from the hotel, business cards from the all-you-can-eat Korean grill he ate at, the lucky fucker, and individually wrapped packets of Bigelow tea. Tell me I’m not the only one who immediately thinks of male gigolos upon hearing the word ‘Bigelow’. I’m not used to having Dave gone for extended periods of time. He’s lucky in that while his office has locations worldwide, he’s not asked to travel that often. I’ll admit, it was nice to be able to take up the entire king-sized bed at night and sleep without earplugs in, but it was strange not having him around.
I can’t tell you how many times I started to say something to him – especially while I was watching Lost – and realized after I’d opened my piehole that duh, he wasn’t there. It was nice to just flop on the couch with him last night and catch up verbally as opposed to through abbreviated text messages and emails. I lay in bed and listened to Dave leave for work this morning while Oliver shouted, “Mum-may! Poo BUM!” I stayed in bed for as long as I possibly could without him combusting spontaneously in his crib before I changed him and brought him downstairs. I put him in his booster seat, gave him a truck to play with and started making coffee.
While I was doing that I couldn’t help but notice the bowl of organic waste that I’d asked Dave to take outside last night festering away on the counter alongside the milk that he’d left sitting out all night long. When we got downstairs, I saw he’d left his dirty socks in a little heap on the floor beside the sofa – all surefire signs that indeed, my husband is home. I missed him. And his dirty socks.