Walking on egg shells

And not because I’m endlessly baking cookies.

(Although I should be.)

After two weeks of icky behaviour where I did not revel in the anticipation of spending MORE time with those children who maintain that they truly do belong to me, they’ve been…ok.

Not great.

Good, mostly.

Or, good enough most of the time.


They are feeling cooped up.

I feel….restless. But don’t feel like putting on 12 layers of clothing to walk around the streets with nothing to do. Playgrounds are not open. Pebble beach on lake is full of washed up garbage covered in ice. There isn’t enough snow to shovel or play with. Shopping….not in the mood. No money left to spend anyway…

So we run errands together and they keep it together and then we come home and we plan this and that and we end up doing something completely different and it’s all ok and then sometime in the middle part of the afternoon they start to tear around the house.

I hear the giggling and laughter and pitter patter of little feet interspersed with yelling and shouting, and…


I hear egg shells cracking.

The sounds do not evoke joy in me. They evoke an anticipation of what is to come – some accident involving one or the other getting pushed, whacked with a hockey stick, or tripping/falling off or from something resulting in crying, whining and complaining.

We need snow.

Or daddy to come home and take them out.

Or…what? I was supposed to whip up the icing for the gingerbread house so they can put that thing together finally, but I’m still putting groceries away in the kitchen. And restacking the toilet paper in the bathroom after disconnecting the plumbing because someone dropped something down the hole in the sink. And rearranging the contents of the fridge to accommodate the new stuff I bought for the Christmas open house we’re doing. And blogging….



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