There is just something so promising and magical when my husband says he’ll watch the littles for a bit so I can have some time to myself. I mean, time to myself is rare, extremely welcoming and I will literally take every minute I can squeeze out of it.
But sometimes that magical, hopeful moment full of promise and peace gets crushed into a pile of tears, doubts, questions, messes, and buckets of disappointment before it even begins. You know what I’m talking about:
Someone throws up or has an accident and your “me time” turns into scrubbing the carpet, washing sheets, cursing the juice, considering ripping out the carpet, more scrubbing, and then feeling guilty for even thinking about “me time” all while trying to keep the child out of the mess they just created.
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