I am at the point in my week when I'm weary. I've been with children--a couple of them mine, many others not--for the better part of forever. I've watched Kitty Cat wobble around in high-heeled plastic dress up shoes that make her look both adorable and ridiculous. I've endured many, many outbursts and screams and tears and sibling fights. Maybe a few kicks to the head and elbows in the gut as well.
I've loved Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat with so much ferocity I've feared my heart would rupture and ooze, and detested them with such vehemence I questioned why I had them in the first place. I've baked a few treats for my brood and prepared dozens of meals and snacks.
I've met deadlines. I've gnashed my teeth over my manuscript, always sitting there like a soft corpse, a still warm duck that has just been shot from the sky (and I'm sorry, you must be tired of hearing about it). I've worked happily on my newer projects, trying to ignore the voice asking why I think I can make these ideas fly. Why bother?
I've had a nice dinner out with an amazing friend who will listen to anything I spew in her direction without judging. Or, at least, without letting on that she's judging.
I've engaged in some good conversations with J., sitting on different sides of the living room after the kids have gone to bed, and we've neglected each other as well, two tugboats steering around the other, just trying to get work done.
I've rediscovered the awesomeness that is a rice sock (sock + rice + 2 minutes in the microwave) and how it will keep a person warm for hours.
Fruit Bat has been outdoing himself after school (and sometimes before) lately. Today, I picked him up and I could read him, as we were walking away, and I saw it was going to be one of those afternoons. The kind where he scowls and kicks and refuses all rational pleas to do things like get in the car and come home with us.
I tried all sorts of ploys until I could only come up with starting the engine, pulling next to him and telling him to hop in, hoping to shock him a little by proving that I was serious about getting underway. He refused and ended up running down the side of the road crying and screaming while I coasted into the next pull off. It was ugly.
And now I'm ready for...what? A roadtrip? A chocolate cake? A bottle of champagne, a piece of paper and a pen so I can drink the wine, write a note that says, "I made it through. I'm so happy. I'm so miserable. If you read this, please email and let me know when I can come for a visit." and toss the whole thing into the ocean.
(Seems I'm writing often about tossing things into the ocean. Hmm.)