I was still at my parents' house and Jacob had gone back to Houston to "work." And I know he was working and not just "working," but when the baby started throwing up on me just as he was leaving us, and when I was walking her fussy self up and down the hallway at 3:30am, and when double diaper duty called in a big way at the crack of dawn, I began to certainly feel like my vacation was really more of a "vacation."
Also on Friday, Jake's "work" of toddlerly discovery involved dumping gravel down the garbage disposal in my parents' sink. So naptime had me fishing rock bits out of the drain while feeling a lot like I was on the fast track to martyrdom when really it was pretty run of the mill parenting. Thirty pieces of granite later, I decided to suppress my natural Martha and rev up my Mary to the tune of a quiet cappuccino and a quiet blogging session in the quiet.
And then the baby woke up.
So no post was mine on Friday.
You care. I know. That's why I told you.
We also shot skeet.
Or we watched with awe in our knickers.
Or Jake did. Not *we* so much.
Now I'm back to the essential work of putting holds on my entire summer reading list. Though with the kinds of queues I'm running into with Houston Public Library, I might be enjoying my beach reads next summer.