My eyes are blurry. My kids are at the table eating(?) dinner by themselves (rather noisily) and all I want to do is keep reading the love story of the Pioneer Woman-Black Heels to Tractor Wheels. Holy cow! What a life! I feel like this should be my life. I've always felt like I should have been raised on a farm. Surprisingly, that cliched term never escaped my mother's lips. (live in a barn, whatever)

Sitting on the porch, quietly watching the sunset after a day of hard manual labor. How dreamy. (really, no sarcasm) I've always sort of liked physical work in a weird, you-actually-liked-that-job? kind of way. (laundry at the nursing home) I can't help but daydream about children so tired from working cattle, (yes, I hear the child labor complaints here) that they pass out at six pm and now me and my cowboy can finally go view the lovely sunset while being serenaded by crickets.

Instead I'm hurrying off to dissipate a skirmish about spilled milk and the no-toys-at-the-table rule being horrendously breached. Or physically prying little hands off an other's little neck. Or saying for the umpteen millionth time "If you don't clean up, you will not watch the movie!" Which is quickly followed by "We all work together to clean up, don't worry about what (so and so) is doing." Then, there is almost always a firm reminder that "You will be going to Time Out if you fight."

Every family does this right? Because so often the things I read and see lead me to believe that everyone else's lives are rosy and the nasty stuff is fleeting and handled with utmost of care. Where's the reality? Where's the stress? I'm not talking about those corny reality shows. I mean real people with real stress. I know I can't be the only one who's flawed.

That's okay though. Because once they're in bed, sleeping and quiet, I forget the stress and noise of the day and my thoughts are my own again. I can think about whatever I want without being interrupted by a whining "Mommy, Daniel's hitting me!" Or a "Mommy, Shannon took my cup!" Or like tonight, "Maeey, hep me! Do dat! Dwa bi bud! Dwa maeey bud!" (if you can figure that one out please help me interpret her. Speech therapy is imminent.)

I want to remember the good stuff and forget the nasty. Because unlike what everybody says about childbirth, I VIVIDLY remember the pain of it (at least in Shannon's case, there wasn't much pain with the other two.) and right now, my skeptical heart dwells too much on the unpleasant. I suppose the bad is funnier in retrospect though.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Vacation... I mean the country.

I think a move to the country would do us all some good. Tim wouldn't mind. After all, he is half redneck and I think a part of him yearns for wide open spaces too.

But something in me, that little reality-check voice reminds me that I'd be bringing all the noise and stress with me, except now the neighbors won't hear my desperate pleas for peace and order. And Shannon would be surrounded by so much wildlife and (gasp) BUGS that she would be condemned to a secluded life indoors. And I couldn't run off to Wegman's quick to pick up milk. (strike that one, instead it'd be fresh) And, worst of all... I would have to get up before the birds do and I'm not sure I'm willing to make that sacrifice.

For now, I'm happy to live with these little suburban creatures and the closest thing I can get to a cowboy. All he needs is a cowboy hat and some nice-fitting Wranglers.