The day began at 3am.
Sleeping arrangements were reviewed last night by Annabelle who suggested that to prevent me scaring her ‘half into her life’ again that she just go straight to bed in my room. My protestations fell on stony ground in the face of her ‘resistance will be futile’ demeanor. By 3am, after five hours dodging legs, elbows and feet, bruised and exhausted, I crawled onto the sofa and prayed for sleep or death, not necessarily in that order.
Again, not necessarily in that order.
Anticipating the annual sugar induced bedlam and coincidentally remembering that the oven was long overdue for a deep clean, busied myself in the kitchen all morning. Midway through my desperate housewife routine, phone rang. With strength of will unknown to most things mortal, I took my head out of the oven.
Friend Karen on the phone. The line wasn’t great but depressingly adequate to glean that she was currently brunching in Central Park in a balmy 21 degrees with her new man. Flown out there for a surprise Easter weekend of lurve, she wanted to share the joy (?!!) and wish me a Happy Easter. In a flurry of giggling and kissy, kissing the line disconnected.
Put my head back into the oven.
The teenager texted from his room at around 3pm asking what time he should come down and get his dinner. Recalling recent online parental advice, briefly (and amusingly) considered an attempt at crossing the threshold of the lair to suggest possibility of him coming down to eat with us.