Life, Interrupted

My husband is on vacation for three weeks. 

Three. Weeks. 3. 

It's only been five days, and to be honest I'm loving it. The kids are loving it. He is loving it.

My schedule is not loving it.

I barely have time to empty the hamper before it is full again, and don't even ask how many times the dishwasher has been run since he's been at home. Having an extra full sized person around makes for a lot of dirty clothes and dirty dishes. That's not to say that he doesn't help with the laundry or dishes. He's been great. He's helped with the kids and the chores, on top of working on some projects around the house. 

The trouble is bed time, for both me and the kids. Knowing that daddy is just a few feet away makes it very difficult for them to fall asleep at nap time. And as far as us adults are concerned, we are usually in bed at 9. This is a totally reasonable time for a pregnant woman with two kids to chase around and a man who gets up at or before sunrise. But a man who doesn't have to get up until after 7? He wants to stay up all night. Or at least until 11. 

Meanwhile Mama is plumb tuckered. My feed reader is overflowing, I'm behind on posting just about everywhere, and if you've called me this week, well, I'm sorry. I haven't returned a phone call in days. Between hockey playoffs, the first four seasons of Rescue Me and hyperactive hormonal dreams, my sleep is shaky at best. I haven't even been able to nap very well. I lay down, fall asleep for 5 to 15 minutes, have a dream about being trapped in a fire with Sydney Crosby and wake with a start. After that, the prospect of more sleep is but a dream.

We're having a blast, but I wouldn't be surprised if by the end of it I'm in a coma. Send flowers, ok? I like lilies.