The kids are gone. I don't miss them.
Does that sound bad? It's not that I don't love them. I know I will see them again very soon. But you must remember that in nearly 13 years of motherhood, I've had approximately three days away from the children. That's 4,672 days of parenting less three in Portland. A vacation is surely in order. A working vacation, that is.
And I don't have a problem with that.
When I call to check in on the kids, Big Sis will ask if they want to speak to me and twice, Audrey's reply has been, "About what?" They're having a fabulous time. I only hope that the rest of the summer can compare to the adventures they're having at Fulton Manor. Today they went to the zoo and swimming. Isaac has taken over egg collecting duties. Audrey is enjoying Big Sis's cooking. Emily, well, I'm sure she's breaking some kind of Nintendo Pokemon records. I know they all three spent an evening catching toads. There have been fireworks. And they've been promised at least one more visit to the owl barn. My children are not missing me.
An unfortunate ongoing theme for me has been another string of nights with insomnia. I think, (though my memory is fuzzy at best) I've enjoyed reasonable sleep one out of the last six nights. So tonight when I returned home from work -- with no evening plans -- I first listened to the deafening silence of my home, laid down for a few minutes, started laundry, mowed the lawn, then drank a cup of tea with a two Unisom chaser. I expect to be incoherent very very soon.