I realized today that I haven't published a single post in the month of May.
I've written quite a few in my head.
Most of them unfit for public consumption. Thankfully, RIM intervened on your behalf. Count yourself lucky.
I know I should start where I left off. But I'm convinced that will take too much energy and I will never write again. (Which would be a tragedy. And how.) So I'm starting with today. Maybe someday when my iron count is higher and my blood sugar is steady and my heart is softer, I will fill you in on the rest of the month. (Let's be honest, an impossible trifecta. Never gonna happen.) Suffice it to say, my dress was fabulous (I mean really fabulous), my shoes were spectacular, the quilt was amazing and raised close to a billion dollars for the cancer program, and the spring tea benefit was such a smashing success that David was awed and amazed (once again) that I am his wife.
And then I went on a little trip to Washington, DC to clear my head and support my brother. (Mostly the latter.) And while I was there I got rained on every day and rode the metro and took lots of self-portraits and ate soft-shelled crab at every meal because they were in season.
And in between all that we did all the end-of-the-year-school activities, like concerts and recitals and softball tournaments and awards programs which filled me with pride and made me humble to be mothering these particular children.
Which brings us to today.
One of the best days of the entire year.
The day my children are returned to me.
I went out for the necessary supplies. A cartload of sunscreen and puzzles.
And then stopped at the bookstore for reading material. For long, empty afternoons.
And while I was shopping, I felt my insides loosening.
This is the beginning.
Eighty-two days of freedom.
Eighty-three if I count today. And I do.
Eighty-three days of sleeping late and eating late and retiring late. Eighty-three days of games and puzzles and swimming and sunscreen and sea shores and road trips and books and afternoon naps if we want one. Eighty-three days of washing towels and bathing suits and eating popsicles and pasta salads. Eighty-three days when they are all mine. Undivided and unscheduled and (gasp) maybe even unproductive.
Just try and stop me.