Suffice it to say, I must really, truly, hate myself in such a way that torture is the only way to appease the masochism.
All that to say, I'm traipsing off with the kids tomorrow morn to visit Ruby and George in the Arctic Tundra. Three kids, two dogs, two (extra on the opinionated, less on the actually listening to what you have to say) sweet elderly grandparents and myself. In a two bedroom, single wide trailer.
I do this because I truly do love these people. Though I wish there were a hotel room close by that I could actually, you know, afford.
The thing is.... I didn't make the chicken patties I wanted to bring for Lydia. Nor did I roast the potatoes nor the beets. The diapers are currently on the drying rack and only one of four loads of clothes has finished drying-- though I haven't actually taken them out and folded them, yet.
Kyra and Lydia are awful bed partners and Ruby wants no one in the bedroom with her, lest she feel the need to scream and cry throughout the night.
I always like the idea of going to visit friends and family, but often find my self short on both sleep and temper.
I rarely enjoy myself, is what I'm trying to say.
And, yet, here I am, eve of a three night stay away from the gloriousness that is my home, with virtually nothing prepared and even less packed.
Lydia fell out of a tree in the back yard about 7 o'clock this evening, not a long drop, but a painful one, and I couldn't help that one of the first thoughts out of my head, after the initial, "Oh, shit!" was, "Oh, please have broke something so we don't have to leave, tomorrow!"
I kid you not.
This makes me either an ungrateful bitch or a horrible mother. Probably both, truth be told.
I'm excited to go because it's a chance to see people I really want to see. I'm dreading the trip for the lack of sleep and escapism I so desire.
Onward and forward. Or so they say.