Sometimes, you just have to fake it to make it...

The air outside is filled with a fine, misty rain, the sky a grim grey, and the trees a depressing array of bare branches. The fog drifts its droll and dreary self over our mountain, resting in our little cove for a time before drifting on down the mountain to sulk some place else. Perhaps this should be romantic. I should be sitting next to my fire with a warm beverage and a book, drinking in the moments I have to myself before my toddler wakes. Even though I just came from a boisterous play group with Aiden and should be soaking up the silence, I somehow feel very alone and deprived of fellowship. I should be taking pride as I devour the left overs of the best chicken soup I have ever made, while looking forward to the fresh cookies I just baked, and relish the fact that I have the time to make things from scratch again. Instead, I stare into the cold screen of my computer, typing words, looking for comfort where I know it doesn't exist. Is this the plague of a stay-at-home-mom? The eternal quest of a longing heart? Or simply a season that will pass along with the weather? Since I cannot answer those questions with more than a vague "perhaps" or "maybe", I'll choose instead a book to accompany my visit with the fire, coffee and a cookie (or two) to comfort my soul, and hope that if I make my life appear romantic, it will feel that way too.