Tuesday night.

Sometime in April or May my weeknight routine became: come home, make dinner, eat dinner, clean dishes, watch TV until I can't stand myself anymore, get ready for bed, talk to Mike on the phone (unless it's Wednesday, then it's snuggle time!), pretend to read until my eyes get heavy, go to sleep. Of course that wasn't every night, but it was a lot of nights, more nights than it should have been. More nights than I am proud to admit.

Then I started planning, I started going places, saying yes again. Then it was time for DC and really really long bus rides. Then it was time to go to Philly, Memorial Day, and singing to Billy Joel in the car. Then it was alumnae weekend, and staying out on a work night. And today, in the aftermath, everything is just different. I came home and made granola bars from scratch, which is something I've been meaning to do. (I also put mini peanut butter cups in them, which is something everyone should do.) I wrote some more of my novel and sent the whole messy chunk of it to my writing group for next week. Then I read two blog posts on babies (here and here) and cried my eyes out. Now I'm going to read until Mike calls, yawning and calling me main the way we do.