I have ten girls coming over this afternoon for a fancy tea for M’s birthday. Itty bitty sandwiches and whipped cream and tea and brownies still need to be made. There are still patches of sticky lemon syrup all over the floor (more on this later, I am sure) and the bathroom should be scrubbed one more time (I’ll keep that part to myself, thank you very much).
But I have a strange urge to go sew my daughters matching sun dresses instead. Wouldn’t that be fun? (Stick to the task here, my better self is urging.)
I’m still paying the price of staying up till 1:30 Wednesday night rereading H.P. 7. Wouldn’t it be awesome to have a bag like Hermione’s, in which I could carry around everything I needed? Or a tent like the Weasleys borrowed, that appears to be a one-bedroom flat that smells faintly of cats? Yesterday I was a bear– alternately disengaged (i.e. napping on the couch) or hysterical, screaming about the aforementioned lemon syrup. Oy. That’s not the mom I want to be, but it is the mom I sometimes choose to be.