What I'm missing out on: fire throwers at the beach
When I heard raising children is a sacrifice, I thought it was a hit-to-the-career, tiny-waist-is-history, become-poor-stay-poor kind of thing. It turns out I was only half right. Raising children also involves sacrifice of the more subtle variety, the kind parents get so used to they rarely think to complain about anymore. What with the drowning echo of those first three items, who has the energy to think of such trivial things as concerts?
I miss out on concerts. The night my old favorite band played here in Chicago, I was sharing a hotel room with three kids after an in-law packed day in suburban Canada. And tonight? The hippies down the block are celebrating the full moon with a jam on the beach. Fire-throwers, sand, drums. It's not that I technically couldn't go (hire a sitter, walk out the door) it's that I, well, mentally can't.
I'm pregnant. Moody. Exhausted. By myself. Put "again" after all of those things and you see why it's just easier to order take out from Oscar's and wait on the hubs to get home.
Before you feel too sorry for me, please know that I'm about to eat Pad See-Ew and will not spend tomorrow cleaning the smell of bonfire out of my hair.
Just for old times sake, here's me at Burning Man before
the little loves of my life devoured my freedom.
PS- Speaking of rolling in the dirt, here's B at the beach the other day . . .
You know what? This face is worth skipping any
concert. I've had my day in the sun. Viva la Bianca!