Yesterday, Hubby and I both woke up at 6:30. We both started to dress.
"Go back to sleep," I told him.
"I've got to go to work," he mumbled.
"You don't have to go to work," I said.
"It's the working hour."
"Only for me," I explained. "It's Saturday."
Poor guy. Either tax season is contagious or he was having a bad dream. He slid back under the covers complaining he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again.
I got about an hour to myself, working from my remote, remote office (the living room), before he was up again.
Nine more days. I'll sleep on the tenth.
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