Here I am on Day 2 of Project Write All The Days, fired up and ready and L has gone and usurped my laptop (I should say though, it’s because he is fixing a problem I’m having with it. Which is nice, so I should stop being a jerk), leaving me with his PC, which I cannot operate, for reasons unknown — the weirdly spaced keyboard, maybe, or the split bar you click for the mouse. Why are there two buttons where there should be one? Why can’t I scroll with two fingers on the trackpad? Why can’t I make an EM DASH? I ask you.
On second thought, it may be the rum I put in this Coke I’m drinking that’s the problem.
But here I type, regardless! I soldier on under dire circumstances. I am a marvel. A sliiiiightly inebriated marvel.
Today was the first day back to work after a two-week holiday break and man is that email inbox a whammy when you crack it open for the first time. Also, this morning, the kids slumbered on like rocks (a never-seen-over-the-break-phenomenon), while I bashed the top of my alarm and groped my way to the shower in the dark. This, as you can imagine, is not my favorite. Max has been spending the majority of his nights lately sleeping next to me, so when the shrill EH EH EH EH of my clock goes off, here is what I am leaving:
1. warm snuggly baby (in footie jammies)
2. warm snuggly husband (I know, right? Gross. GET A ROOM.)
3. flannel sheets
4. general warmness
5. SLEEPING
6. Did I mention the adorable chubby baby
And here we come back again to the part where I am a marvel, because it’s like extracting myself from quicksand, getting out of that toasty bed. In fact, if I talk much more about it, I’m going to jump off this blog ship and go climb under the covers.
What else? I have forgotten how to do this, I think. It’s most definitely not like riding a bike. It’s more like playing the piano. You can remember how your fingers go, and even a couple of tunes if it’s been a while since you tickled the ivories, but put a piece of sheet music in front of your face, and the pauses come fast and heavy. Stick with me, though, because I still got the music in me. I’m pretty sure. I hope. I’m almost positive.
Editor’s note: We traveled back in time to recount the beginning of Rachel’s life as a mom of three. This post is from January. She’s gotten the groove with her brood in Decatur. She blogs at yestertimeblog.com.
