Pity Party

This morning I was feeling a bit sorry for myself. Even though I had practically begged Andrew to go to Vegas last night---last minute invitation to what was sure to be a once in a lifetime experience (and yes, I told him he HAD to go, mostly out of principle because if the invite had gone to me, I wouldn't even have asked)--I was lamenting the fact that I had two cranky girls on my own for the second weekend in a row (last weekend A was in New Orleans for a different bachelor party). I was in Starbucks and D and C were literally wrestling in the wagon and someone looked at me like "My god, can't you control them?"

And then I smiled, beause I realized that while I was at Starbucks at 9am, JAW was in a four hour birthing class after flying home from said bachelor party. And I wasn't sure who I wanted to be less...JAW, who was likely still drunk and in a world of hurt (since he'd texted me mid-evening last night with "no poop. pass gas"--a nice nodd to my daughters' gracious behavior--i had a pretty good idea of his state)... or Julie, his wife, who would have to pretend she didn't see the looks of pity from the other parents as her husband oozed alcohol out of his pores while practicing breathing exercises.

And suddenly, I felt so much better.