It was a beautiful summer morning, unseasonably cool for August. We didn't have anything on the calendar so I decided to take my girls on a leisurely stroll to pick up a few items at the grocery store, then swing by the dry cleaner for my husband's dress shirts on our way home.
My one-year-old happily chattered in her stroller pointing out birds and squirrels, craning her head upward to smile at me when I pointed out the same to her. My two and four-year-olds merrily skipped along the sidewalk in front of us shouting “die creatures die” every time they stomped on an ant. It was the perfect morning – the kind of morning I dreamed about having when I dreamed about being a stay-at-home Mom.
But by the time we arrived back home I was more anxious than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. That little voice inside my head, you know the one – the one who tells you to do things, like pour bleach on your neighbor's stupid perfect flowers? (No? Just me? Nobody?) Well by the time we walked in our garage that little voice was screaming inside my head, “That took you over two hours. TWO. HOURS. Do you know how much more you could have accomplished today if you would have just driven?” I hurried the kids inside and dusted something.