It’s a radiant four pm. The counters are wiped, slick. The sink is empty and dinner is simmering next to my teapot, also humming. The children are willingly lost in the woods out back and the babe still asleep. I can’t smell anyone’s afternoon sweat and there’s not a disparate sock in sight. The only smell in my house, aside from dinner, is the new candle I lit to memorialize afternoons like this one.
I sink into my chair, alone, with a book and my Bible and I’m ready to receive all that the next full hour of rest has for me.
This is you, too, right? “Once every three and a half months,” you answer, if you’re like me.
Except in my mind’s eye. If there is room for fantasy for a mother of five who moonlights as a writer, this would be my daily fantasy: {continue reading over here —>}
