Me, Myself & I

My favorite day of the week is Monday. The kids go back to school, the husband goes back to work, and I get the house to myself.

It’s not that I don’t love them to pieces. I do. And I love having them home and doing things with them and spending time with them. But I need my alone time, and after a weekend where my routine changes significantly, I need Monday to regroup.

Today is the first time I’ve had the house to myself in 13 days. Thirteen! First, the Princess was home recovering from having her wisdom teeth removed. Then we were all preparing for and participating in Passover seders. Then Banana Girl and I went college shopping.

And now everyone has gone back to their regularly scheduled activities, leaving me home alone in silence.

It’s not that I don’t like people, but if I don’t get a certain amount of alone time, I start to go a little crazy (or crazier than usual). So I will take advantage of the next six hours to do whatever I need to get done. I’ll clean, getting everything just right until everyone comes home and messes it all back up again. I’ll do the piles of laundry that have been sitting waiting for me (my husband did all of the other laundry, so I’m not complaining at all). I’ll edit, since I’m on deadline again. I’ll probably talk to myself (I tend to do that a lot), but no one will be around to hear me, wonder if I’m talking to them, wonder why I’m talking to myself when they’re around, or complain. And all the while I’ll get my head into gear so that when everyone comes home six hours from now I can be the sane, rational person they’re hoping I’ll be.

Happy Passover!

I might have taught my kids my fear of bugs. I’ve tried hard not to, but even I’m starting to believe in my lack of success.

While at dinner with friends Friday night, I texted my girls to find out why they were still home—they were supposed to be going out to dinner with my parents, but my stalker app said they were at our house. The Princess texted that they had a “bit of an issue in regard to a very large spider.”

I started to laugh.

She told me it was dead and flushed.

I told her I was proud of her.

She then informed me my dad came over and killed it.

He came over to my house, killed the spider, went back to his own house and waited for my girls to follow him so they could go to dinner.

I will be the first to admit I’ve called my father over to my house to kill a bug. As an adult. In fact, about three years ago. Usually because my husband refuses to leave work to do it, and my dad is retired. So the fact he came over to do this doesn’t surprise me nearly as much as it should. Even he admits it was big.

The part that does surprise me is the killing part.

When I called him to come over, it was to kill a cicada. It was on the window on the INSIDE of my house. As in, sharing space with me. I cried. He came over.

But he didn’t kill it. He placed it back outside and let it go back on its merry way, meaning if it managed to find its way inside the first time, it was now free to do so again.

He let it live.

A cicada is also known as a locust, as in one of the ten plagues of Egypt THAT CONVINCED THE PHAROAH TO LET THE HEBREWS LEAVE EGYPT!!!! Their presence was enough to get rid of an entire labor force.

But he let it live. It can now breed other locusts able to make their way into my house.

So as you’re sitting around your Passover seder this year, think about that.

And if you need bugs killed, call my dad. Unless it’s a cicada.

The Princess Bride

I bought my husband a Fitbit watch for his birthday. He had the Zip that he used for a long time, but he’d forget it at home often and I thought it was time for him to have something attached to him. The Blaze has more features, and he’s started to set goals and make sure to walk hourly, so he’s healthier, which is an added bonus.

My bonus is that I have his old one. It’s a pain in the neck to remember to stick it in my pocket every day, especially since most of my clothes don’t actually have pockets, but I’m trying. The first time I used it, I dropped it on the beach and had to go racing back to find it. I’m at the point where I’m trying to balance remembering it and not getting obsessive about it.

I might be failing.

This weekend, I decided to challenge my husband. He walks way more than I do. There was no chance I would win. Not legitimately, anyway. But with only a few hours before the time limit, I was almost close enough to beat him. Then he pulled ahead. With an hour left to go, we went to sleep. Well, he did. I lay there, waiting for his breathing to even out and for him to fall deep enough asleep for me to be able to sneak out of bed and go downstairs, walking around in circles until I nudged ahead. I was almost foiled by the Fitbit not syncing, but I made it.

I was sneaky and underhanded. He wasn’t pleased when he woke up to find out I’d won in such a manner. I’ll never be able to pull it off again.

But it might make up for him making me think I could beat him at ping pong, only to pause halfway through and inform me, “I am not left-handed.”