I’m wondering why the days fly by so quickly, and yet each week stretches on forever. Am I the only one with this perception?
I’m not sure I could get any less sleep than I do and function long term, but still I run out of time each day. Twenty four hours should be enough, no? But it never is. Each day ends with Mama feeling guilty because I didn’t _________. If I clean I didn’t write. If I write I didn’t do laundry. If I do laundry I didn’t shop. If I shop I didn’t play with the girl. If I play with the girl I didn’t blog. And on and on, no end in sight. I think the world would end if I made time to *gasp* read.
Somehow I’m sure I should be grateful I have so much to do, right? Somehow. But then every morning I wake up thinking it must be Friday, and it still isn’t.
I did accomplish something yesterday–I think. 😛 I tried to kill the aiptasia (pest anemone) again, and I haven’t seen it resurface since. It must be morally wrong to be so happy to kill something, but I admit it. Alone in the living room, by the light of the tank, Mama did a happy dance. 😀