That One Time We Fled for Our Lives.

Yesterday was National Margarita Day.

I did not partake. But if I were inclined to celebrate things in that way, I might have had a couple because yesterday was also the twentieth anniversary of the day I escaped THAT MAN.

I remember it well. I had waited three months for the perfect moment, and when it finally came along, I took it.

I had four babies, two diaper bags, and a tank full of gas.

We've come a long way.

So cheers  to us.

Good Lord, I'm a Goner

Don't tell him I told you this, but... he snores.

He says I snore, too, but we all know girls don't actually do that sort of thing. It's right up there with belching and passing gas on the list of Things It's Biologically Impossible for Girls to Do. So when he says I snore, you know darn well he's just being silly.

But he definitely snores.

Surprisingly, it doesn't bother me at all. It's part of the noises of the night. It's rhythmic and somewhat soothing, and it makes me feel cozier and warmer to know he's right there. (Most nights, he's not there, so I soak up what time we have together.)

And when he's not there, the silence makes me nervous and restless. I've grown so comfortable with him, it's as if he supposed to be there, as if he's always been there. His absence feels like the anomaly. The night is off kilter without him. I get fidgety, and I have to wait for the lullaby of the passing night trains to soothe me to sleep. It's something to drown out the silence when he's gone.