I seem to not be able to sleep for very long.
The beds are harder than the wooden floor.
The windchimes outside ring loudly and inconsistently as the storms pass through every half hour.
One dog shivers endlessly and the other hides under the bed, ready to snap at any passerby with teeth as sharp as an allegator.
I put a sheet over all the blankets on Dad's bed because sleeping in it would be just too weird and there's no where else to sleep. It's still weird.
Chinese food sits badly in my digestive track.
There's a dead bat in here somewhere.
I have a giant L stamped on my forehead because I couldn't even place next to last in any game we played yesterday.
I worry that I'll have nothing to blog about while Abrah is on vacation.
I don't want to miss the 3 seconds of sun first thing in the morning before the clouds roll in.
I swear Sheffield Heights creates its own weather.
I miss my alone time in the evenings, but I'm always so tired here that I go to bed early, and then I get up to be alone in the morning. OMG, like a NORMAL person.
And why is it that the cat, the dogs, the girls, the visitor, and my boyfriend are all still asleep upstairs at 9 a.m.?
And why do I cook frantically for 45 minutes only to sit down just in time for everyone to be done eating?
If being a mother is so rewarding, where's my enormous check?
Cause all I found is another pile of dirty laundry that I swear was clean and folded yesterday and nobody wore.