A Vacation In My House

I'll admit it. The past two weeks have been pretty rough. I've had a lot going on at work. A lot going on at home. A lot going on between 9 p.m. and 2 a.m. A lot of goings on running around in my brain. And I was tired.

Worn out.

I might even use the word, overwhelmed.

And by last Friday, I was borderline useless. A lump of pathetic, waking up at the dawn of crack with the most energetic cavetoddler on the planet. 

It occurred to me then that a look at the two of us was a poloroid of extremes. My husband got the picture. And said, "That's it." He took the Hurricane to his mom's this weekend with orders that I was to rest and sleep and do fun things only. He said, "Do. Not. Work. I mean it. No working. Only sleeping."

This is only one reason why he is my favorite person on the planet. 

And so I had a vacation. At home.

And about 10 minutes into the silence, I realized it was the first time I've been alone in my home since August of 2005.

Almost three years. And that made me cry. With joy. And with exhaustion. And from a truly grateful place, I was thankful for the 1,000 plus days of movement and noise and cra-za-zy from the commotion of souls. And extremely thankful for the 24 hours of silence.