the pecked hen

Sugar Daddy has flown the coop.

He took off to Cabo San Lucas for five days to spear fish and generally act like a caveman. In a moment of pure insanity, I encouraged him to go. I must be some kind of stupid.

So I'm going it alone.

And it's not so fun. I'm not complaining per se. I'm just informing the public so that everyone will feel sorry for me.

When my husband is home, I have a tendency to feel like I must be a director so that things get done. And I have been known to "micromanage" such chores as diaper changes and tooth brushing. But one must always wipe from front to back when changing little girls and take extra time on the molars of a sugar crazed boy. These are widely known facts.

"I feel like a pecked hen. You correct everything I do." Ben said one day.

"I believe the phrase is hen pecked my dear." I said.

"Case in point." he mumbled and went back to making up the bed so that it looked like a child had made it.

But now I'm missing my pecked hen.

I'm missing how good he is at entertaining the boy in the evening. I'm missing how he takes the trash out with ease and makes sure my Red Bull is chilled and waiting for me before I even know I want one. I'm missing how he perfectly fills out the right side of the bed and lays his hand in the small of my back as we drift off to sleep.

I vow to spend less time pecking and more time noticing the delightful minutiae of my life with Sugar Daddy.

Along with the pecked hen, we have the chagrined hound.

Finnigan has taken the arrival of the new baby pretty hard. Knowing that his chances of being my baby ever again are slim to none, he has taken to harassing everyone else non-stop for attention.

Just look at that face. You know he's saying "Just love me Mom." I guess I need to spend some one on one time with him. I'll get right on that after I feed and change the baby, unload the dishwasher, cycle the laundry, find some staples for Thom's art project, fill out some thank you cards and call to make a well baby appointment with the doctor. Ey yi yi.

There really is no rest for the wicked.

P.S. The good news is I love my flower shoes.