The Law of One More Time

Last night John had a work dinner which meant I had both kids myself. Aside from Owen asking every ten minutes or so “Where’s my Daddy?” it went well. By the way, the answer to that was “He is working Owen." and not "He left dude, because you are annoying with your incessant Where My Daddys? Also, he is Maggie’s Daddy too (I think).” After reading him Trees, The Counting Book, Charlie Harper’s ABCs, Curious George Goes to the Library (and wrecks havoc), Good Night San Francisco and tucking him in thirty-three times. Not an exaggeration, each night Owen requires that he is put to bed with his four blankets. All which are from his baby days, three being large swaddling blankets of the same variety and the other a super soft baby blue blanket that he rubs with fervor of a teenage boy.

Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: Three More Times. (Smart Ass).
Me: Okay, last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time, Owen.
Owen: Okay, Mommy. I miss you.

Finally out of blanket tucking hell, I escaped to the kitchen to finish dinner for tomorrow (Baked Ziti). There was an intention to make something to eat. Instead due to the heavenly quiet, I went the single girl route and poured myself a giant glass of wine. Then another. “One More Time”, indeed.