Sometimes when it is all a little too much, I imagine a different life. One where we rent a so-so apartment with wood floors (because I couldn’t live with less) but a too small kitchen and no pantry. One where the kids are a little crammed and our furniture is a little crowded in the living room and I squish all of my plants by the three windows in an attempt to keep them barely alive. Sometimes I’m sure I curse that little space but in the afternoons we pour out of the so-so apartment and walk around a so-so town to visit the grocery store and the library and maybe a friend or two. After staying much to long at the second friends house we collapse home and cook up the last minute supper I picked up at the store. And when everyone is sleeping I clean. Rather quickly because it’s not that big of a place. And I admire my wood floors and curse the tiny kitchen and dream of owning my own farm and wish I could paint the dirty ivory walls. I spend all of my money buying raw milk and pastured eggs from my secret farmer friend and never ever think about what will happen if we have to replace our roof or our hot water tank or chase sheep through knee deep mud. That life is nice too I think, so sometimes I go there.