It's 11. That's late for me now, and I can feel the fatigue down to my fingertips. I remember a time during my high school years when I would spend my summers schlepping sandwiches and beers until 1 am, then bike across town to meet with friends afterwards. That I was once able to do this shamelessly impresses my older self.
The kids were fine today. I was in the house after work for 10 seconds before I knew, without her saying a word, that Jen was annoyed, and guessed correctly that it was at Abby. She's still very whiny, even though her rash seems to be withering under the carpet-bombing mixture of concoctions that we slather on her twice daily. Despite the retreat of the bumps and redness and general terribleness, she's very itchy. Thus, she's irritable almost all the time. It's a taxing thing to deal with, and I tried my best to step up immediately, lest Jen lose her patience and hit herself with a frying pan.
Luckily that didn't happen.
The night passed pleasantly. After their bath, we spent a good 45 minutes in the little air-conditioned lifeboat that is their room. It's like a tiny oasis from the weighty, sticky summer air of the rest of the house. I'm more than happy to linger there for a while after bathtime. When we put them to bed, I secretly want to duck down where they can't see me, curl up on the floor, and sleep the unfettered sleep of a cool man.
I'm hot. And tired. And I also claimed above that Abby was whiny. Wonder where she gets it.
Day one hundred and sixty two.
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