For the last two weeks, and frankly even longer than that, I've been running around like a crazy person, putting tons of miles on my car, packing, moving, shopping, running the kid back and forth, working, etc. The days of delicious naps in the middle of the day are over for a while, and I think the non-working awake hours I've spent lately can be counted on one hand. This is fine for now, its all for a good cause (that wonderful pantry cabinet that I will have when this remodel is over) but I am going to bed at around 9 every night, totally exhausted.
Rob, obviously, has a lot on his mind, too, and is adapting to living with my parents, but his day-to-day hasn't changed all that much. He still takes the bus in to work (a different numbered bus, but that's really the only difference) and he's still playing softball once a week, and he's still sitting in his climate controlled office doing contemplative work with other smart people, and getting an actual lunch break and two, quiet commute hours a day to read, or sleep or play Word with Friends on his iPhone. I don't want to diminish his contribution here, but I barely get to sit down the whole day and eat most of my meals over the sink or in the car, and I've become one of those people who actually uses my hands free device and squeezes phone calls in while driving from one location to the other.
Last night we're sitting at the dinner table, (we all eat dinner together, including my parents. Isn't that cute?) and something comes up, I don't remember what, and my dad starts making a joke about how I ask Rob to do everything for me, and how he knows why Rob is seated in the corner where he can't get up (so he doesn't have to do anything.) I look at my dad like he's crazy, and then he goes on to talk about how Rob has worked ALL DAY. Oh, and this was a day after my mom laughed at Rob while he was doing dishes; or rather, because he was doing the dishes. I thought I was going to lose it.
There's no use, though. My dad is from another generation where men got home from work and sat and read the paper while dinner was made and cleaned up, kids were bathed and put to bed and a little laundry was folded until the mom collapsed in a heap.
My parents believe I am the laziest person they have ever met. They've said this out loud to me and to their friends, so I'm not making false assumptions. They have repeatedly muttered the words "Poor Rob..." If this period of living with them while being pulled in 17 different directions does not dispel that opinion, nothing ever will. I have a feeling I could work and run around 23 hours a day, and it would make no difference; my baseboards are still filthy and I still eat out too much.
My dad is lucky he's cute...