It's very late and by all rights I should be in bed. But instead, I'm sitting on my front porch. It's full of boxes, but my bookshelves are out here and loaded with books and I have a few of my bits and bobs about that make me smile. I'm having a beer (and a cigarette - hush, it's my secret vice) and enjoying not doing anything.
Not that I don't have anything to do, far from it. There are mounds of boxes to unpack and things that need to be put and placed and arranged, but you know what? I'm tired. My feet hurt. My legs hurt. My shoulders hurt.
But mostly, my heart hurts.
You see, I started working this weekend. Perfect timing, no? Let's move our entire apartment and while I'm at it, let's start a new job and work the entire weekend. Almost as much fun as a root canal.
Working is fine. It is what it is - cashiering at Tarjay Booteek. It's not very challenging; it borders on mindless. It's a pay check.
But I miss my babies. For the last 4 or 5 days, they've been in O's hands, for the most part, because I've been packing or unpacking or working. And it sucks. They come to me, faces filthy from playing in the back yard, wanting a drink or food or a cuddle and I give them what they need and then go right back to packing or unpacking or working.
It's not so bad when they're here and I'm here because I know they're just steps away. If I want to, I can take a break for 10 minutes and go play with them, help them drive their little cars around the yard, give them kisses and snuggles and reprimands as needed.
But when I'm at work, and someone comes thru my lane with a little blond girl who smiles at me and starts chattering or when a woman with a baby is there, cooing over her child, I just want to go home and be with them, to scoop them up and inhale their lovely little girl selves until I'm satiated.
And I can't do that all the time now.
And it hurts.