I'm supposed to be allowing the husband to live vicariously through me this morning. His request, before walking out the door to work, was a warm bath and another two hours of sleep.
I should be doing that.
There are clothes in the dryer that need to be folded and put away. Dishes from breakfast in the sink. Folded clothes on the couch that have been dying to be put away. Floors that haven't been vacuumed in a month. Dust on every available surface.
I should be taking care of that stuff too.
I am ignoring the child in my uterus having a tumbling hayday and letting The Killers sing me sweet lies. This feels like a fair trade.
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