Home again, home again, jiggity jig.
I went to London and ate like a pig.
Now I am back, the cats gave no flack
And the Dude's toothache is big.
Yes, the Dude has a toothache. He's soaking in the tub with Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, absorbing some codeine and generally feeling miserable. Poor soul.
Our Thanksgiving at his brother's house was nice. They made a large dinner and it was great. I ate a quarter of a Mississippi mud pie. I didn't realize it was a whole quarter because I was drunk on wine.
They have a toddler, and one on the way. The little girl is a sweetpea and the Dude loves her to bits. She was sick and a little grumpy, but a good child all the same. And as I get whenever I've spent time with small children, I question whether or not I want them. I still don't know. But I do know the Dude does. That becomes more and more apparent all the time, particularly after he's hung out with his nieces and nephews.
I still want to go to Italy. I want to write and learn things. I'm not naive. Having a child would put almost everything on hold for years. Especially since I'm a type B sort of lump. I'm not a high-energy person. I'm neither efficient or terribly productive most days. I also don't drive. I'd be a TTC mom.
So the internal dialogue goes on. I'm 27 soon. It's not an urgent question, but no longer one I can wave off until an indeterminable "later". It's funny. My clock started ticking last year, and now it's quiet again. How odd.