After licking my fingers clean from the melted chocolate the bon bon imprinted on me, I would invite a book to join me for the rest of the day. It wouldn't be just any book, not some hum-drum unsatisfying story. No, it would be a book that completely removes me from my own reality, and leads me into a fantasy world I don't want to leave. If such a book isn't around, maybe I would put on a movie. More specifically, a Jane Austen adaptation. Something I've seen a million times, so I can let my head sink back into my pillow, close my eyes, listen to Mr. Darcy describe Elizabeth Bennet as tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him, and see it all happen beneath my droopy lids. I would probably drift in and out of sleep, only to wake up just in time to see Lizzy touring Pemberley. I would stay awake for the remainder of the movie, because let's face it, the last hour and a half or so is the best part. At the conclusion of the movie, my stomach would ask my hand to please pop another bon bon in my mouth. My hand would oblige, and to be honest after such an exhausting day. . . a relaxing bubble bath would be in order.
Yes, if I COULD this would be how I would spend this gray rainy day: Rest, Jane Austen, bubble bath, and bon bons.
But, it is not meant to be. You see, I have a messy house that needs tending and two children to snap me out of this delusion. There's no time for idleness when I'm needed for block stacking, grilled-cheese making, apple slicing, fort building, book reading, milk pouring, spill cleaning, nose and butt wiping, crayon coloring, "all better" kissing, pretend play dough food eating, child snuggling, baby mugging, ABC singing, laundry folding, dish doing, trash emptying, shelve dusting, floor vacuuming, and a myriad of other tasks that end in -ing.
So I'm off to take care of them. No bon bons in bed for me. Eh. . . bon bons make you fat anyways.