Today I had the luxury of dropping off the Hatchling at a friend’s house for the afternoon. (Doubly appreciated because Mr. Squab has been out of town since the ass-crack of dawn Monday morning, so the Hatchling and I needed a little time apart, you know?) This meant that I could:
– Go to Target and pick up prescriptions that had been waiting there a week;
– Take the time to actually choose some hair color, rather than quickly snatching up the first one that looks like it might be OK;
– Exchange some shoes and pants that were too small for the Hatchling;
– Treat myself to a sandwich and coffee at a cafe, and eat the whole thing SLOWLY and WITHOUT SHARING;
– Pick up the house in preparation for Mr. Squab’s return.
Please note, I was able to do this all in the space of a few hours. Had there been no childcare involved, each of the first three items would have taken a separate trip (or, if combined, been the hellish trip from hell with the hellchild); the fourth item would have been impossible; and the fifth item would have been done imperfectly and hastily during one of the Hatchling’s naps.
So, to recap: I’ve apparently reached a point in my life where merely having a few hours to myself ranks right up there with sex, wine, and chocolate as one of the greatest things ever. I might think that was sad if I weren’t so stoked to have gotten all those things done.