I have not forgotten…

It’s just been a little bit workey around here lately. The classic scenario:

  • take girls to school at 9 a.m.
  • go to work
  • work
  • pick girls up from school at 3 or 4
  • go home
  • get girls drinks and snacks
  • make dinner
  • put dishes away
  • do laundry
  • break up fights
  • praise cool, homemade games and scenarios
  • eat dinner
  • give baths (two, separate ones lately. less fights, but takes longer…)
  • make sure teeth get brushed
  • read books
  • tuck in girls
  • then tell them multiple times it’s time to go to bed, since they are still wired from the day, as I get more and more exhausted
  • finally they turn into sleeping angels.

Now it’s 9:30 or 10 pm. If I could keep them from taking naps at school I would, and they’d probably go to sleep earlier, but I cannot. So they’re up waaay too late.

And here we are. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to check my email and futz on my computer for a half-hour before my husband and I crash on the couch and watch an hour of something on the boob-tube. This week we’re premiering season 4 of Mad Men. Torture? Yes, but everyone is really well-dressed and I like the production design of the show, and sometimes, when I’m not hating Don Draper, I’m lovin’ him. And that’s what makes the world go ’round. Into bed around midnight, after fifteen minutes of reading something, on a good night. Then sleep.

And it starts over again. I’m not complaining, I’m just a little strapped for time. I miss you.

xo J.

1 Comment

  1. So weird…I am nauseated by Mad Men. Love the aesthetic, love the writing, love the historical perspective, HATE the show so much I want to vomit. We watched two seasons on Netflix and I still have sense memory of actually wanting to throw up.

    Oh, the time suck. I spend every day adding items to the to-do list and every morning crying that not one item got crossed off.

    Oh, the fights. We had Three hard enough with just one rotter. I can’t imagine if the rotters were having their rotten phases in the company of another rotter. Holy Moly.

    You’re lucky you can’t drink more.

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