In the last month, we took a two-week trip by car, spent time with the in-laws, and most recently, were snowed in, as a family, for the last eight days. (The “by car” part is important because I back-seat drive. A lot. I even slam my foot on an imaginary brake if I’m feeling like we’re going to slam into the car in front of us. Funny, right? Not really, because it drives him insane.) Add to that the stress and pressures of travel and holidays and the drudgery of returning to the grind in January temperatures.
Then, because you’re me, top it with starting an extremely rigorous 10-week gut healing protocol during which we have to eat like saints, abstain from alcohol and take supplements six times a day…including one that tastes a little bit like mud. (It’s basically a Whole 30, twice, minus the coffee, plus the mud.) And, because I’m a glutton for punishment, why not throw in a significant ramp-up of my communications consulting business.
Naturally, all that might explain the curious absence of blog posts over the last month. But, more importantly, if you mix all that stuff up in this bowl we call marriage you have quite the recipe. A spectacular recipe, actually. For…well…how should I say it? The F word.
