My kids go to their dad's house for the weekend and this is what they do:
Go out to eat.
Go to the movies.
Buy new computer games.
And tennis rackets.
And soccer cleats.
Go out for ice cream.
And go garage saling - which they love.
Then they come home a few hours before me.
And I walk in the door whipped.
And notice that the dogs have no food.
And there are dishes all over the place.
And overflowing trash cans.
And two dead mice in traps.
And a Sasquatch load of three items in the washing machine and my scrubs for tomorrow still in the hamper.
And a tv and two computers blasting.
There was a bright spot. A big one. Now I can turn on my heat.
Our dear friend Kevin - a Bunco husband in a million - putting up our new storm door. Custom sized, of course, for a 120 year old house. Not the door. Just the space the door goes in. It took him two days to build the surround. And all he wanted from me was the money for the supplies. $25. We argued over this and he told me I was a crazy woman, which made me laugh. People who live in glass houses...
I don't think my kids appreciate Kevin enough. Because if it hadn't been for him, they'd think even less of me than they already do.