My throw up hurts.
It’s Friday night and the house is quiet. Daughter #1 is away at cowgirl camp, daughter #2 is asleep, no stirring, no wait, asleep, and husband #1 has probably just cracked beer #2 while enjoying his weekly golf night with the boys. No, there is no husband #2.
I’m usually content with having the house to myself on Friday night but not tonight. Some of my favorite kidless friends are out having drinks at a beach front candlelit bar, relaxing on rattan couches, sucking down lemon drops and talking about, without a doubt, all things grown-up and cool. Damn. Let’s just say tonight I’m a little over being held hostage by a snoring two-year-old.
I had debated all week about what I would post tonight, declaring Fridays as my new blog writing night, as thoughts and topics raced through my mom-brain at warp speed. I had it all planned out. You know, like when people are convinced that they are going to have 3 or 4 kids before they even try one on for size. Talk about confident (and clueless). It looks like tonight the message isn’t going be much more than “cranky happens”. And it happens to me a lot, especially when I’m over-tired, hormonally heightened and deprived of a life beyond domestics.
So, I guess I’ll go sip some tea now because “my throw up hurts” too (which is toddler talk for “my throat hurts”) and which by the way had to be translated by a mommy friend of mine because when my daughter kept repeating it, I had no idea what she meant. So much for speaking my child’s language. Sheesh.