Denial

Sometimes I think I want to live in denial. There are no fighting children, they are just having fun. There are no skin rashes, just a gentle flush on the face and 'oh, he's not scratching, he just rubs his face when he's tired'. No, I don't smell a dirty diaper. What's for dinner? Who knows, someone will make it. Bills? What bills? Responsibility, what's that? And besides, I hear the weather is great there. But as always reality slaps me in the face and I find that I cannot dwell in denial for very long. There are things that must get done, things I must do, fights I must stop, diapers I must change, dinners I must make (after washing my hands of course), bills I must pay and the list goes on. So I will not be sending out "change of address" letters postmarked "denial" but I have found that denial real estate can be transported and moved. It's called the bath tub. So please no calling in the next hour as I will be away, soaking in my own little slice of denial, blissfully unaware that anything is happening in the universe and then I will take a direct flight back in time to make dinner.