As I'm putting the second load of laundry in at 9:45pm tonight, I'm imagining all the fun my husband is having on his business trip to Seattle. Looking back on my evening of putting three kids to bed, applying ointment to the dog's infected ear, paying bills, two loads of laundry, and avoiding piles of toys to trip on in the family room, I turn bitter to the dinner he's having, the jokes he's laughing at, the drinks I wish I had. At least he got out of all this crap the last few days.
But then it occurs to me.
Having stayed home for the last four years, I've become quite hermitlike. What would I say at a dinner party? Would I even figure out when I was supposed to laugh? All day today I have been devising plans on how to cancel my play date party I have scheduled next week simply because I've become so antisocial. Let's see, menu plan or fake an illness? Nothing against the mothers invited, I love them all and they have wonderful children! I have just become so accustomed to my reclusive lifestyle. After the first day of potty training three little ones today, I keep replaying in my head my explanation of training pants.
"When you have to go peepee, you have to take off your big boy pants and go on the potty. Do you have to go peepee?"
No, I will take my shorts, flip flops, and whatever you call this ponytail/bun and sit on my cushioned dining room chair while I write to my "peeps" as you entertain vice presidents and HR directors.