Then the snowstorm hit. Yep, I know it’s the end of March. Welcome to Illinois.
My mind raced with all the glorious things I could accomplish. First, I’d start reading a book that’s been patiently waiting for me on the top of the pile. Then, I’d write. I had several nonfiction stories brewing. Or I could work on my novel. I’m still trying to figure out my characters. Maybe I’d start plotting. Also, a whole weekend would give me plenty of time to dig into spring cleaning – even if it did look more like Christmas outside.
But somewhere in the midst of my plans, I realized something. I had an entire weekend with my 13-year-old ahead of me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a whole weekend alone with this kid. Who knew if it would ever happen again?
I thought of my firstborn, away at college. And my 16-year-old, who will be a senior next year. I’ll always have stories to write or housework to do. But I won’t always have a 13-year-old all to myself for the entire weekend.
So, what did we do?
It was practically perfect.
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