We haven't been home in a few days. Brian and I celebrated our fifteenth anniversary by staying at a very sweet bed and breakfast, which we believe to have been collectively haunted by our grandmothers. Let me tell you this much: It's kinda hard to get all romantical about one's fifteenth anniversary with a Baptist hymnal from your grandmother's church in the corner of the room. That's not to say we didn't get romantical, it was hard.
Brian and I were able to enjoy each other's company, eat dinners that didn't require refereeing or mopping, and we got to listen to intelligent things on the radio, like Freakonomics, as opposed to non-intelligent things, like Taylor Swift's latest break-up. (Girlfriend is gonna run outta boys in the world.)
We pulled into town and grabbed our bags from the truck as we, hand-in-hand, made our way into our once-clean home.
Take a close look. You'll find Brian's shoes, a shredded roll of toilet paper, dirty undies, a tumped over chair, a throw pillow not on the couch, an overnight bag that was last seen in Daughter 1's closet, and a tell-tell clue: A cat collar.
I guess when the humans are away, the cats will play.
At least we no longer have mice.