For weeks now, at the end of any particularly trying day or in the midst of a "challenging" situation, I've been looking at Jason and declaring, "I need 3 days!" Translated, I've been asking and whining and begging about wanting a break. I had some very specific ideas about what I'd be doing with those three days. Day One: Frantic, manic project/organzing/cleaning day. I'd finally get to all those tasks that I never get to do during the day and am too tired to look at by 8:00 p.m. Day Two: Social outing/errand-running/lunch with friends day. Day Three: Don't get dressed/stay on the couch watching TV and reading lazy day.
Last night, Jason said, "Want me to bring the girls up to my parents' house for the weekend and give you a break?" Ha ha ha, I thought.
Today, Jason called me from work. "Did you decide if you want me to bring the girls up north tonight?" Instantly, I started my control-freak-mom obsessing, listing all the reasons why he should not bring the girls up north. Jemma has a cold, she still nurses at night, Annie might miss me, the roads might be bad in a day or two when they come home . . . I was torn. Jemma pointed her finger at me and said, "Uh-oh!" Then she threw the majority of her dinner on the floor.
At 5:30 p.m., Jason walked in the house. As we were having dinner, Annie declared that she wanted to go to sleep in the car and wake up at Grandpa and Grandma's. Jason looked at me.
"You ask me for a break. I'm offering to give it to you. What do you think?"
As I type, Jason should be minutes away from pulling into his parents' driveway. I just returned home from a neighborhood cookie exchange and, for the first time since Annie was born, have the whole house to myself for two whole days. Not to mention, 54 assorted cookies downstairs. It's dangerous . . .
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