Some days it's hard to remember why I do my job. Yesterday was a good example of that. Claire and I (and others in our unit) spent what felt like days at a particularly bloody crime scene. At the end of it, we both needed a drink. I don't mind having one or two at the end of a long day with friends at the bar every now and then -- but last night felt too much like I needed a drink - just to get the day off'a me. I hate that.

What I really wanted was to immediately go home and see my baby and my husband, but I felt like I needed some space in between work and home - I didn't wanna bring any of that home with me, if that makes sense.

When I finally got home, Mike and Isa were passed out on the couch, toys and books everywhere, and a puddle of syrup on the floor. Also, the cat smelled like syrup.

I still haven't gotten an explanation other than, "Your daughter!" from Mike.

Ay Dios mio.