Just Write (But Hurry.)

It's Tuesday and the theme of the last few days has been hurry, hurry. And a definite lack of sleep. David has been teething something awful plus the time change plus we can't seem to find a happy medium temperature between the radiators and the AC/fan units. I worry the kids are hot. I worry they are cold. I worry.

My tremor is worse than it's ever been as I try to hold onto the papers and check Scriptures at the same time. So many Scriptures in this Bible study. Most of them right but I don't want to let any errors pass by. That is my job, after all. I am pretty sure after this one I am done with editing for a few years. My home has gone to the dogs. I can't sacrifice bad wife bad mom bad housekeeper for a couple hundred bucks.

I frantically fold clothes this morning as I have 312 things to do before noon. But I stop and think and thank. I am thankful for healthy babies with adorable clothes. I thank God that I have a washer and dryer and hangers and for those beautiful kids I prayed for that I can dress. Even if one won't barely stay still to get dressed and the other dresses herself in such lovely concoctions I claimed that for Halloween she was "a toddler who insists on picking out her own clothes." Not worth the battles.

There are still those 312 things and yet for a minute I close my eyes, let the tremor stop in my left hand, rest my hands on the black keyboard and just breathe. Because it is a glorious Indian Summer-November, because yesterday we had a blast letting a baby doll fly down the slide, because Libbie has wild curly blonde hair that is perfect, because the leaves on the trees on the mountains are so gloriously magical that I can't see them without adoring Him and making it a Bible lesson.

And she said, it is good.

{Just Write is hosted by Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary every week.}
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Just Write.

Libbie is on the couch, a barely touched graham cracker in her hand. For two nights in a row, she's spiked a fever right at bedtime. The first night she slept in her bed, our bed, the loveseat. Last night with me in the big bed. Mr. V assigned to the couch.

David slept for 12 hours, but I woke many times to re-cover my sickie, push back her sweaty hair.

Sweat-soaked in yellow footed pajamas, she asked to be rocked at 10 pm last night. Rocked. My almost-three-year-old. I rocked.

David woke this morning to suck greedily on a breast that can't seem to stop getting clogged ducts. Pain. The nurse at the doctor thinks I want permission to stop nursing, but I just want relief. I want to know why I appear to be the only woman in the world who has no problems breastfeeding at first but lots of problems starting around eight months.

His teeth are little razorblades; and while I am grateful he hasn't bit the breast that feeds him, he has taken a good gnaw at my chin. Four little teeth with two more coming in. He looks like a fourth-grader with the growing-in two front teeth of different lengths.

I have piles and piles and piles of boxes and I am too embarrassed about it to call maintenance to come fix our main AC unit, which just growls instead of blows. This morning it's cool and not bothersome, but our 80-degree days are leaving me sweaty. I still have one more load at the house, but that would involve emptying out the car. And when should I do that, with a baby and a sick little one?

This week is the finish of moving, and a big quick editing job, and unpacking that probably won't happen.

But I still need to write. So here it is.




{Oh hey! I have two guest posts up today: 10 Burning Questions I Have for PBS/Sprout at Mama Loves Her Shows and Fruity Squash Puree at Once a Month Mom.}
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