The Sexy Sound Of Silence.

My girls are out of the house for roughly nine days and quite frankly, there’s excitement in the air. Cue the obvious I already miss them truths but this down time is beyond needed.

As I pen this piece of literature, a nice, juicy steak is sizzling on the barbecue. It will be my lunch for tomorrow and there will be no one else to feed. There will be no dishes, no clean up. No dishwasher loading reminders. The process is bliss, if food prep were to ever fall into that category. On this evening, it has.

The first few hours of this scenario is hard for me to wrap my brain stem around. When I’m home, there’s relatively non-stop movement replete with noise, messes, reminders, disciplines, cleanings, pill fills, dishes, laundry ad nauseam in the form of two rather needy twin girls. Remove them from the picture (thank God temporarily albeit) and voila! Utter mental deprogramming coupled with the notion that I now have an infinite amount of time on my hands to accomplish any and many of the things that get put on the backest burner during my typical week, or day.

Usually, I would try my best to go directly home after a days labor and by labor I mean donning a denim apron and stocking food stuffs on shelves. The gym might have to wait as I would need to prep supper, tidy up as needed (which is always) and spend time with the offspring. Writing might get pushed to tomorrow, then the next day. And did I mention the dishes? Most nights I swear I’m at the sink twenty minutes; time not well spent, if you know what I’m saying.

The independence can be scary, not gonna truth stretch here. I get so caught up in dadsland that given a day or so of this freedom to accustom myself, lookout. I’ll be like a child in a Snickers factory..grabbing handfuls of this deliciousness and begging for more.

With this extra time and summer actually arriving today, the skies literally the lim-lim. Laking, kayaking, swimming, barbecuing, tanning, beaching..all in my present future.

I needn’t carry on. You get it as much as one could grasp this ideal. I miss them, I wanna kiss them, fact. But fiction? Me pretending to not utterly bask in this rarity that has landed in my boxer short cladded lap. High fiction, to the layperson.

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