I know that in about 2 hours, I'll be in the afternoon doldrums feeling like Coleridge's ancient mariner when his "painted ship" gets stuck "upon a painted ocean."
And, in about 3 hours I will be exhaling slowly through my mouth to avoid losing my temper at Winton (at age 2, he's new to the art of defiance) and Clara (at age 4, she's new to refined manipulation in the form of strategically timed statements like "I love you, Mommy").
And, I know that in 4 hours I will be so tired I will be dragging myself around by my elbows.
BUT, right now (kids both in hour 2 of their afternoon nap, morning successfully wittered away over cappuccino for me and lemon bites for them followed by "dancing" outside) things are wonderful.
Why can't I be a stay-at-home Mom, again? (When did I become the woman who wanted to? Sometime after Clara was born, and not in her first 6 months when I clung to work as preserver of some kind of pre-kid identity. Pfaw! Pre-kid identity? It's been gone so long I no longer miss it.)