What a strange, strange feeling.
Three small girls sleep peacefully in my home right now. One is gently swinging - awaking periodically to whimper or snort or sneeze, but returning to slumber, tucked snugly under satiny pink flowers.
Another is likely crescent shaped, spooning her Cabbage Patch Angel Baby, thumb securely wedged between tiny teeth.
The third is sprawled across a tiny bed, suffering a consequence for 90 minutes of battle with mom. Probably sweaty, probably sticky, bound to appear in my periphery at any minute.
I, however, am awake. The phone is not ringing. There is no one online to talk to. My inbox is not chirping. I've caught up on small group reading, on blog reading, on pleasure reading. The house is generally clean, though there are projects I could tackle...but surely not finish, and surely not without waking a tiny human.
Not 2 hours ago I was at the end of my rope, having done fierce battle with a strong-willed child who doesn't understand that "yelling at the top of your voice" is not "being quiet." "Screaming" does not equal "not talking." In her world, awakened, angry babies are not a direct result of banshee wails from a preschooler in a neighboring room.
With the door finally shut behind me, resting fairly assured that the skirmish was over, I tiptoed through the house, past the swinging baby and collapsed on the couch where I entered recovery. Chest pounding, face flushed, like I'd just finished a 5K at full sprint. I proceeded to meditate: i need a vacation...i need a vacation...i need a vacation...
Fast forward two quiet hours and I find myself in a strange reality. I am bored.
Another is likely crescent shaped, spooning her Cabbage Patch Angel Baby, thumb securely wedged between tiny teeth.
The third is sprawled across a tiny bed, suffering a consequence for 90 minutes of battle with mom. Probably sweaty, probably sticky, bound to appear in my periphery at any minute.
I, however, am awake. The phone is not ringing. There is no one online to talk to. My inbox is not chirping. I've caught up on small group reading, on blog reading, on pleasure reading. The house is generally clean, though there are projects I could tackle...but surely not finish, and surely not without waking a tiny human.
Not 2 hours ago I was at the end of my rope, having done fierce battle with a strong-willed child who doesn't understand that "yelling at the top of your voice" is not "being quiet." "Screaming" does not equal "not talking." In her world, awakened, angry babies are not a direct result of banshee wails from a preschooler in a neighboring room.
With the door finally shut behind me, resting fairly assured that the skirmish was over, I tiptoed through the house, past the swinging baby and collapsed on the couch where I entered recovery. Chest pounding, face flushed, like I'd just finished a 5K at full sprint. I proceeded to meditate: i need a vacation...i need a vacation...i need a vacation...
Fast forward two quiet hours and I find myself in a strange reality. I am bored.
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