Showing posts from December, 2011

Sweet William

I’m sure there is spit up in my hair. There is definitely spit up on the couch and on the game that George Wilder and Amelia left on the floor. There is more on my pillow and some on my shirt. I’ve sat down for the first time in a week, unless sleeping sitting up, which doesn’t count, or nursing. Meals are speed races. So is the cleaning up, cooking, laundry, and showering if showing occurs. I’ve burnt food several times and soured the laundry. Amelia and George Wilder now pick out their own outfits. George Wilder lives is costumes, Amelia, in some assortment of stripes or pinks or blues. I’m not sure we’ve brushed hair in the month of December. Teeth? Yes, but not with accurate supervision. They have also learned how to unload and stack the dishwasher, sort the laundry, fold the clean clothes, and read books by themselves even if they don’t know the words. They need me less. It breaks me. I’m lonely. They need me right? Not as much as I thought. I’m lonely without