Is it terrible that sometimes, by Sunday night, after a glorious weekend with the kids I'm (whisper it) kind of looking forward to Monday, when I can get back to work?
I mean look, sure, I adore them, love hanging out with them, watching them, playing with them, seeing them learn new stuff, seeing them blossom into little people with interests and thoughts and opinions.
But my God, the mopping up and the dishwasher loading and the food preparation and clearing away, and the screaming, the fighting, the not having a moment to read the paper or sit and have a cup of tea... And the questions. Oh my. That's the nearly-six year old. I counted 342 questions this morning and then I gave up. They just don't stop. The toddler tantrums (the nearly two year old). The pushing every boundary to see what might happen (the four year old).
I'm exhausted.
And I'm looking happily at my desk knowing that tomorrow I can sit down, drink coffee, with no one pestering me. And I can work.
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