I didn't know I needed cooking therapy, but suddenly I found myself in the kitchen with the milk glass out.
It's been a week. I had to be somewhere every single morning. I didn't get much housework done. Pip had to get a bunch of stitches because he cut his head on the bench. This afternoon I retreated to my room with chocolate and a good book during naptime, and that was nice, but it wasn't enough.
There's something therapeutic about cooking for me, even though I fight it sometimes. Of course, circumstances have to be right. Cooking at the last minute with a two-year-old hanging on to my leg while I'm firing off spelling words to another child is not therapeutic. But if I can get half an hour to myself in the kitchen, that's magic.