I am finding my time home with the boys to be wonderful and exhausting. The house is always a disaster - and if I step on a lego one more time I am going to freak out. The days have no structure, just nursing, napping, and playing imaginary games about cousins, boats, and monsters. We always stomp around outside for a bit. Most of the time it is boring. Boring in a good way.
We wonder out loud to each other as we crash into bed at night: How will we do this when I go back to work? How will we get everything done? Where will we find moments of peace? Will it be a dreaded hamster wheel with too many moving parts? What will happen when both boys get sick for the first time?
Desmond turned three months old yesterday. He has started to laugh and my goal each morning is to get a good chuckle out of him. He is chunky and smooth and perfectly wonderful. Truman has gone back to preschool and I think he is happy there. I am not totally sure and that always weighs heavy on my heart. No knowing. Trying to talk to him about it and asking too many questions so he clams up. Wondering if he feels included and loved. Wondering if I am a worry wart. That is all for now.
