I keep coming on here to write entries, and they all come out something like, "Waaah, waaah, I'm in a bad mood and sometimes Jeremy is gone, and the kids magically get sick the day before he leaves on surprise trips to Bucharest and the Philippines, so I can't even drop them off at the gym to work off my angst there," and I get about half a paragraph in and realize what a first world snooty tool I sound like.
I bet if I had to haul river water all day with a 33-pound Emmy strapped to my back (YES SHE WEIGHS AS MUCH AS GRACE NOW) in inappropriate footwear, I would feel a lot differently about this week's lack of variety in exercise.
Speaking of which, Jeremy is on a surprise trip to Bucharest. He's almost back, so I don't feel all creeped out telling you that. I usually withhold that information until he's home, but I just don't care this time. Probably because I'm really tired. Grace sleepwalks just enough that I'm now conditioned to jump out of bed and check on every noise. Also, Emmy doesn't sleep anymore. She talks all night. ALL NIGHT. There is occasional screaming. But mostly she just tells herself jokes and then cackles and then goes silent when her partner in crime just lies there sleeping instead of cackling back. And then she's back with the jokes again.
So I've been feeling sorry for myself. And then I read this today, by my sister who has four kids and a crazy schedule: "New approach: work at joy. And by work, I mean all the little things. And by joy, I mean get it through my skull that I have nothing to whine about and everything to be happy about."
Tomorrow I will probably feel sorry for myself again, but for now I've been shamed into joy. Tell me these things directly, and I'll cut you (and then somehow make your injury all about me), but sometimes if I hear them indirectly, it does the trick.