Just to make things funner, I took this week off work to indulge in a whole lot of nothing to celebrate my husband's birthday (Thursday) and my birthday (Friday) and decompress a little because, you guys, I could use to decompress a little.
Instead, I am home with Ben (10) and Jack (14) and their dad (58 on Thursday!) and I love them, yes I really really do, but gah, you guys, this was supposed to be the week of running and shopping and reading and writing and getting my hair did and going to yoga and running and shopping. Instead it is the week of trying to keep my kids from killing each other (Shut up, fart brain!) and then listening to them complain when I separate them (I want to play with Jack!) and then rinse and repeat repeat repeeeeeeeeeaaaat.
That's OK. It really is. Because I have the playroom. Last weekend, I published a column in the TFP about the playroom. I forgot to share it here then, but I am doing it today with a renewed sense of gratitude for that ratty, filthy, chaotic den of boy noise.
The playroom is serious, you guys.
|Halloween in the playroom. Some of these children are mine. Most of|
them are not. As long as they stay upstairs, I like them all just fine.