I had a day to myself. A whole day. I left the house at 8:30am and came back home at 5:30pm. In that time I went shopping for the kids at a consignment sale, met some friends for coffee and then lunch, bought myself two pairs of desperately needed shoes, ran into some more friends for tea and then then headed back to the consignment sale to help pack up and pick up my clothes that hadn't sold.
It was a lovely day. A wonderful day.
Then I came home. I walked through the door with two crying kids I had had to pick up and carry out of the park. One was crying because she wanted to pee by a tree and I wouldn't let her and the other was crying because he wanted to keep playing on the slide and I wouldn't let him.
I walked into the house and felt defeated. Beyond the tear-streaked faces of my children a mess of epic proportions confronted me. The floors were strewn with toys and clothes and little particles of food. No surface was left uncluttered. (To be fair, it didn't look that different from how it was when I left this morning.)
I wish I could have turned around and walked back out of the house. Back to a world of lounging in the sun while sipping a latte and strolling through quiet streets alone.
I didn't. Instead I muddled through the best I could. And wondered if this is how the husband feels when he comes home every evening.