I'm always big with the disclaimers. I've been working on a story since Christmas, and every time I send a chapter out to my guinea pigs (er ... ever-so-kind friends and family who read and send me such constructive criticism as "It's good!," which is what we amateur writer-types want to hear anyway), I usually preface it with "I was up early," "I went to bed late," "I have a fever," "I got hit by a Mack truck" or the like. Just in case it really IS terrible, you see, and they're gentle enough to pretend my reason is valid.
So I woke up at 4 to whispering in my ear. I flipped over in bed and saw a shadowy figure inches from my face, and I screamed. I screamed. I'm not proud of it, nor am I not still feeling guilty about the fact that I woke my husband up so early on the morning he's running his first half-marathon in sub-freezing temperatures. The shadowy figure jumped about two feet in the air and only then did I make out the mass of bed-head and the small stature and realize it was only my firstborn ... not my worst nightmare come true. He would be thrilled for me to tell the world this, but since I daresay the world doesn't read my blog, I don't feel too bad saying that he was up (and whispering at me in the dark) because he wet his bed. "Because I was asleep," he said. Maybe that tendency to disclaim is hereditary.
And then when I probably should make excuses I can't find the right ones. Yesterday Katherine was all Linda Blair from the time she woke up at 6:30. She seemed to blame me personally for the fact that she was up too early and proceeded to whine ceaselessly for most of the morning. It finally occurred to Steven that her behavior was so unlike her that she must not feel well. So I gave her some Tylenol and bam! Happy girl. Next time I should go to the "sick" place before the "demon possession" one.
Alex ran the last mile to complete his cumulative marathon yesterday, and it was seventy-five degrees below zero. Or maybe it was in the 40s, but that WIND. He was very proud of himself, though, and has no idea that his audience of admirers (his dad, his sister, me, and his grandparents) didn't actually SEE him run. Steven took a picture over the heads of all the parental onlookers and I'm going to pretend that counts so that I'm not actually lying to him. Here, he's the one behind the kid in the lead.
I've started to think about the summer and what I'm going to do with no school and no Mother's Day Out. Short of shipping them off to the Houston family who probably isn't prepared to keep them for the FULL three months, I'm at a loss. There are church camps and VBSes galore, and I'm going to pounce on all of them that I can scrounge up even if it means Alex goes for a week or so to one of those snake-handling establishments (just kidding?), and there's the Y day camp, although I went there when I was a kid and have a distinct memory of sitting alone next to the pool and daydreaming about digging under the fence, below the highway, and halfway home, where my best friend would meet me underground for a day of 11-year-old debauchery. I also remember playing up my phobia of thunderstorms for an excuse to play damsel-in-distress to the counselor I had a ginormous crush on and feigning headaches when we played team sports, which have never been my forte. But I digress.
As long as I can keep him busy I think Alex will have a good summer. Perhaps more important is my continuing to keep up the volume of work I've been blessed enough to shoulder up till now. I'm trying to unload the guilt I have when I work all day and don't have time to take Katherine to the park or for any other age-appropriate outing. If I were at work, I rationalize, I wouldn't have that luxury. Of course, if I were at work, she would be with people who would ensure that she saw the light of day at least a few times before dark. It's something I struggle with. Not, however, enough to send me in earnest search of an office job just yet...
I was sick for three weeks recently and am now living in fear of germs. I guess that happens. Where I used to wipe Katherine's nose with my hand if there were no tissues or sleeves or shirttails or spare gum wrappers in sight (hey, you do what you gotta do), I now ... well, still wipe her nose with my hand. But I do so with trepidation that didn't used to be there. I cough and envision raw noses and Neti-Pot therapy, cough drops and chapped lips and insomnia born of breathing dusty dry air through my mouth until my throat caught on fire. It was my own fault, anyway, and accuse me of magical thinking if you will: The week before I got taken down by this plague I spoke the doomed words "I never get sick."
My quiet early-morning time is over and I have to go get ready to take the kids down to watch Steven run by. I hope he runs his heart out and that his knees don't give him any trouble and that if he runs out of steam around mile 7, he doesn't blame Alex's bladder or my overly vocal startle response.
