Aaah, Naptime.

3:30 pm. Sitting down with cup of coffee and computer. Finally. Done prepping pea soup for dinner (involved chopping onion...equivalent of self-flaggelation). Now simmering on stove. Hopefully happily - and not spewing all over poor, difficult to clean stove.

I guess I can stop mentally speaking in bullet points now, Ari's in bed. You know how it goes...throughout the day, your mental conversation proceeds as follows:

• breakfast
• no, eat breakfast, don't throw
• clean up
• clean up
• clean up
• play a little
• okay, play some more
• make sandwiches
• pack sandwiches
• load car
• crap
• change diaper
• change diaper
• wipe floor
• change diaper
• pull screaming child off armoire
• wipe armoire
• finish changing diaper
• socks!
• shoes!
• okay, shoes!
• no, shoes!
• out the door
• where's your carseat?
• not there
• over here
• over here
• yes!
• in car

Sigh. I read somewhere that women must sigh, else they'd scream. This is true. It's a pressure-release. Sascha's commented to me on this phenomenon before...usually in concern.

Me: Siiigh.
Sascha: Everything okay?

The other day, my phone rang, so I answered it. It was my beloved trying to book a flight for a conference he's attending in June. That same week, Ari and I are headed to Michigan so I don't have to single-parent too much (I have a low tolerance for that)...Sascha and I are coordinating our flights so we can carpool to/from the airport.

So, Sascha calls to ask if he should take the 8:40 a.m. flight (requiring him to leave his hotel at 6:40 a.m. after an uninterrupted week of sleep and adult conversation) back to San Diego, which will ensure that he'll get there a little before us. "I'd really rather not take such an early flight...there's one that'll get me in an hour and a half after you guys...you'd just have to wait for me." For an hour and a half. At baggage claim. With a toddler. At naptime. I think not.

Now, let me put it this way, Ari and I are leaving Michigan at 7:40 a.m., which requires my sweet ass to be up by 5:30 so we don't miss our first flight as well as our connecting flight. All my dearheart husband has to do is get his sweet ass to the airport and sit on it, not playing with or trying to feed or comfort anybody throughout a seven-hour ordeal.

So. Sweet wife that I am, I told him it was his decision which flight he took (read: it's your funeral if you make the wrong choice) and that it should be an easy decision (read: I can't believe you called me over this) for someone of his intelligence (read: how on earth do you make as much money as you do?). **

And so, I sigh.

**Author disclaims any and all negativity toward said husband readers may interpret from this posting. Author loves, adores, cherishes, etc. etc. said husband and appreciates the bacon he brings home...and really, is it any of you damned business?