I can take the trash out all by myself. I have spent our married life proclaiming that our relationship is a partnership where all work is equally shared . No ridiculous assigned tasks, no gender influenced chore chart. Not for us. Uh-uh. It is all talk, of course. I generally make the meals and Riley generally (always) mows the lawn. And I never, ever take out the garbage. I will remove it from the trash can. Tie it up. Set it neatly on the back porch. And then let it sit there. In 100 degree heat. Until, the man of the house gets home and walks it the one hundred feet to the garbage can. Today, I took out the trash and lived to tell the tale.
It is not a very interesting one.
I am a much better mother during the day when I know I will be alone at night. We go to parks. Run in the sprinklers. March around the neighborhood and chant the ABC's. We stay out in the great, glorious sun and hide and seek. I would like to say it is the adventurer in me, the love of a mother for her lovely children, a desire to feed them every last moment of a ripe summer. My motivations are decidedly less pure. I know that if I exhaust the little darlings they will be begging for bed by 7:30 each night. Which means at least four hours of Sandra Bullock movies and ice cream for me. This is really in their best interest. Hope Floats makes me cry my ever lovin' eyes out. They shouldn't have to see that.
And finally. I, Conqueror of the Trash, Master of Children's Bedtime, need Riley. Need him in a way that I can feel from my palms to the pit in my stomach. He is at once a basic necessity and so much more than I could have ever hoped to have. This isn't a new lesson, but it is one worth reviewing now and then. That boy belongs right here.
It isn't such a bad place to be.
Have a great weekend.