A package was sitting in the mailbox today. For little old me. I raced back to the house and tore it open. I didn't even let Junior help me with the wrapping paper, that's how excited I was.
Inside I found this, from my mother:
I immediately started laughing hysterically. Both Junior and Chuck looked at me like I was crazy.
"Permission to nap?" I howled. "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard. Like what's standing between me and a good nap is permission." I fell to the floor and held my stomach. I was rolling around good.
"How about two kids? How about a flea infestation and working full time? How about a sink full of dishes, a washing machine full of clothes and a table full of empty dinner plates? Nope! That's not keeping me from repose on the couch. Permission is."
Chuck and Junior stood over me.
"Oh, that's good," I hooted. "That's really friggen good. Thank God she sent me that book. Everything is so much clearer. I now know what's keeping me from restoring my spirit."
I wiped the tears from my eyes.
"Need a hand up or are you staying on the ground?" Chuck asked.
"No, no," I said. "I'm fine right here. I'm giving myself permission to take a nap right here and now. 'Mrs. Mullet, you are free to sleep for as long as you need!' "
"You've lost it."
I placed a hand over my eyes. "If you need anything from the fridge, please step over me."
"Mommy! Get up!"
"Sssshhhh, Junior. I'm napping."
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.