People, bedtime cannot - literally, seriously, I mean it - come soon enough. Oliver has been an aggrieved mess all day, and I found myself completely over him about three hours ago. That was precisely 30 minutes after I picked him up from school. Wow, the time flies. Not always in a good way. Because it is a stunningly beautiful day today, with an afternoon that very nearly approached warm, I opened our first bottle of Rosé of the season. Presently, the boys are bathing, and I'm sneaking planks of grassy cheddar and sucking on a generous first-glass pour. Mother of whine. I swear I've got a real thought to make them put themselves to bed. When does that start to happen, anyway? And where is husband for the love?! Probably avoiding bedtime by pretending to work late. Crap, readers, I'm working myself into a hot mess of a frenzy right now.
Tonight I'm planning to grill a pizza and kick it on the deck with a good book. As I have about 85 in various stages of started-but-not-close-to-done, choosing one shouldn't be difficult. Do y'all think it's unreasonable to consider converting our garage into an apartment for which only I have the key? I've decided that the boys are old enough to figure out how to dry themselves off after a bath so am seeing just how long and alongside how much inane arguing it takes for them to use the towel for its stated purpose.
How cool is the reflection of our sugar maple in this glass o' vin?