Friday.

The first bit of alone-time I've truly seen today, so I'm doing what I know aids my soul. Cold nights with the windows cracked, allowing for the gentle sound of midwest winds rushing through drying leaves on lumbering, lethargic trees. Dim evening light, the quiet murmuring of my older child playing, and a hushed baby snoozing in the middle of a stark white bed. Friday is a cruel, callous, and unfeeling attacker that moves slowly, dragging its heels through the wet ink of our family pages. And it's only a matter of time until this stillness is interrupted by soft baby whimpers from the next room.

Andrew's second job is a necessary evil, but I can't help but despise Fridays because of it.

But the sluggish nature of these days allows for a glimmer of magic. Fridays are quiet, warm, and full of deliciousness. Books are laid out in a methodical order in which to read, movies are abundant, and warm drinks are a definite. I rub noses with the little's nose and again with a nose even littler. I doodle, snuggle, dance, and fill the tummies of my children with comfort food. Both children.

Although my heart misses Andrew on the long days, and I sometimes long for the hustle and bustle of Friday nights, I think I hear the baby cooing, the kettle is whistling, begging to be poured over some delicious tea, and I think I hear Netflix calling to me to snuggle up and start watching Glee (what can I say? I guess I'm a trend-follower). Now if you will excuse me...

Cheers.