I sat on my dirty kitchen floor scrubbing the latest crayon mural off the garbage can. My thoughts flitted between a beautiful wedding I witnessed a few days before, my own pre- marriage anticipation once upon a time, and my surprise that the brown scribbles came off easier than the blue ones. I thought about the way being a wife rarely looks like we envisioned at our bridal showers. As my friend remarked, “It turns out I’m not hosting weekly dinner parties.”
It was about four in the afternoon — the same afternoon with the garbage can mural and tissue incident and the napping battles and the, well, you get the idea — when I decided the fact that all my children still wearing their pajamas meant we’re ahead of schedule for bedtime.
But no matter how I explained it to myself, I still felt like I failed once again as a home manager.
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