Let me paint a picture of an afternoon ‘round at my place. I work from home three or four days a week. My colleagues are five, three and ten months old. By the time 4:30pm rolls around, without fail each and every day I’m blindsided. “I swear it was only 2:30?!” Nope, once again some sneaky little time thief has made their way into my house and stolen come crucial ‘get myself together’ time.
By mid-afternoon, my house looks like a bomb has hit it. Most days I’m convinced that if a burglar broke in, they’d take one look around and assume someone had already ransacked the joint. There’s cushions everywhere from intense cubby building, each and every toy my children own have been thrown around the house and the washing that I intended on folding has now found its way onto the floor.
For some reason my kids like to have dinner every day (so needy!) and so I take off my ‘writer’ hat and throw on the ‘chef’ one.