Inside out.

They were my husband's children today. True to Egbert form, they sat through an entire movie without blinking. I sat too, though my mind wandered through my mounting to-do list and my hands stroked the soft baldness of my sleeping baby's head.

On the car ride home, I checked in with my husband, who asked me how the movie was. "Oh, fine," I replied, wishing, for once, that he could be a stay-at-home dad one morning a week to take the kids to the free Family Film I had just endured. Because I couldn't care less how the movie was. A movie is something you plug your kids into when you're desperate to get something done at home.

He asked which one we saw. "Space Chimps", I said. He responded, "Oh, I heard that one was pretty good, did the kids like it?" "I dunno. Anna? Lily? Rachel? Did you guys like the movie?", I called back. A chorus of yeses. Hm. I hadn't thought to ask before. After all, a movie's a movie. Me? I'd rather be in the sun somewhere, maybe sitting on a boat, or hiking a mountain, or relaxing while my kids play at the park. Something outside. Something active would be nice, but not required. That's just me, though.

So this week when Tim wants to watch the episodes of Wipeout he's taped the last few weeks, he will have a captive audience. My kids will laugh hysterically. So will their father. And I'll be the one sitting off to the side, folding laundry, my thoughts elsewhere.