This was Paul's third annual weekend in Lake Placid, this time to run the full marathon. Despite the five hour drive upstate, he understandably enjoys running a scenic destination race while spending some time with friends.
And while I miss him when he's gone, it's only for a couple of days. I generally plan something fun to do by myself that I know he doesn't enjoy -- maybe some shopping or making a special trip for a scone from Alice's Tea Cup.
This year, however, was an exception. I would never deny him the trip -- and I'm pretty sure he registered for the race before we knew I was pregnant anyway -- but I will admit to guilting him into coming home on Sunday instead of Monday. My "morning" sickness still isn't over, and in fact I've recently had some pretty bad evenings. I hadn't been left alone for more than a few hours at a time, and I wasn't sure how I would handle it. I know I'm supposed to be a big girl, but it sure doesn't feel like it when I'm hunched over the toilet (or, more likely, a trash can at the 59th Street subway stop).
As I write this on Sunday evening, I can say that the weekend went pretty well. Some of the credit goes to Paul -- he set me up with plenty of baked potatoes, as well as some leftover shredded chicken and pasta. Some more of the credit goes to Downton Abbey -- so I wasn't up for a trip to Manhattan, but at least I could entertain myself with part of the first season of a show I've been meaning to watch.
Maybe I'm a bad wife for doing my best to convince Paul to come home a day earlier than he wanted, but he's a good husband -- it didn't take much convincing.