Last night, my mom kidnapped el Cinco for a weekend of frolicking at an amusement park, leaving Frank and me behind for a couple days' worth of quiet and relaxation.
I slept until 9 and awoke from the sunlight streaming through the blinds instead of the 6:15 alarm, or from Kaelyn banging on the door asking for Apple Jacks. I was able to sleep until my body got all the rest it needed because it's
It's almost 11:30 and I'm just now eating breakfast. It's lunchtime, and no one is jumping around asking for peanut butter and jelly or ham and cheese sandwiches and can we have pickles and chips, too, please? There are no impatient tummies to answer to, because it's
I'm lounging on the couch watching Ghost instead of The Backyardigans and reading blogs instead of Skippyjon Jones and Mummy Trouble (for the zillionth time). No need to assume my best Spanish accent and become el Skippito in the Under Mundo, dude. I don't hear read it again, just one more time! because it's
I look around and see unfinished kid business everywhere, like a giggle cut short – the open English workbook with pencil on the rug, the shoes under the kitchen table, the trail of crayons from here to the playroom, Skippyjon Jones and others haphazardly piled on the couch next to a Spiderman blanket.
It's too quiet in here.
I miss my little ones.