"You want to play a card game?" my husband asks after all the kids are in bed and I've finished my workout and am snuggled in my comfy armchair with a good book.
"No," I say, without ceremony or excuse.
This is not because I do not enjoy spending quality time with my husband, have any aversion to card games, or want, in general, to destroy the harmony of our little home.
It's because I tend to be a wet blanket. And by wet, I mean, an honest-to-goodness-H20-wet blanket.
In the course of a random day, the baby's drool soaks the shoulder of my shirt after she's spent a long night teething. I splash dish water on the front of my shirt when I drop the slippery bowl in the soapy water. My sick son takes the optimum moment to puke on my pants before we can get him to a toilet. The baby falls off the sit-and-spin and bangs her lip on the rocking horse, resulting in a fat lip and blood everywhere. My oldest daughter goes to take a drink at supper, hits the cup wrong, and sends the contents of the cup flying across the table into my plate of food and my lap. And eternal potty training brings all sorts of liquid surprises. I put the kids to bed, stick in a workout video and soak my shirt in sweat before I'm done.
So, I think I have earned the right to sit in my comfy arm chair in my nice dry jammies, turn my toes up, and read a book.
I know what you're thinking. Yes, all of those things have happened to me. Granted, it has never happened in one day's time. But - it could.