Too tired to think

Today was a weird day.

I got up early to write, and packed the kids’ lunches at the last minute. The egg-hater got the hard-boiled eggs, the sandwich-hater got a nice big sandwich; the raspberry-avoider found in his bag a container of raspberries and the orange-resister received three clementines.

But I didn’t know that. I dropped them each off at camp, one of two days all summer that they’d be in someone else’s care at the same time. A drop-off foreshortened morning of writing and running preceded a work lunch with a fabulous colleague about some structural changes to my novel. And as I left a lovely neighborhood restaurant, full of channa masala and shahi paneer and excited to see my boys, I took the wrong freeway on-ramp.

And turned around and went the right way.

Then took the wrong interchange and had to backtrack again.

I picked up the little guy and drove him toward the big guy’s camp. And at a stop sign, made a complete stop, changed the song as requested, and started to drive.

A cyclist shot through the intersection and stuck his tongue out at me. Quite civilized, I thought, given that he clearly thought it was his turn. But I had stopped at the sign. Just like everyone else.

I looked around.

What glared back was a stoplight. Still red. And I was halfway through an empty intersection. All clear, all safe. But I felt in equal parts the judgement of the cars still stopped as legally required, and the expectation that the world would crash down around me because I had broken a very important safety rule with my child in the car. And didn’t even know until it was too late.

It was small consolation, but I remembered the reusable bags going into the grocery store. And then left a bag full of frozen berries in the car for several hours. No kids abandoned in the car. But a lot of very sad blueberries who had hoped to make a smoothie some day had their hopes dashed in my obscene levels of discombobulation.

I don’t know where my brain is. I’ve been running on fumes since summer began, but went into warp speed after a conference that inspired me to write, drive change, lean in, and start the revolution.

But I don’t think anybody intended for a revolution in forgetfulness and dangerous driving. Probably. I’m pretty sure. Maybe I just missed that session.

So tonight I’m going to bed early. In the past two weeks I’ve built a web site, written five blog posts, worked on my novel, started a proposal for a client’s memoir, fielded inquiries about ghostwriting, run for preschool Board Vice President, finished a two-month term as preschool Board Secretary, paid bills, and worked on a client naming project, all in the hours when my children slept.

I think it’s time to say, “Yes, you’ve done enough today. Go to sleep.”

And as I was telling Spouse this story, he interrupted twice to ask for details he thought were important but I was positive didn’t matter one freaking bit. After the second interruption, I blew. “Stop interrupting! I want to tell my story my way!”

He graciously said I could. And walked out of the room before I restarted.

So I hollered down the hall towards him that if he wouldn’t listen right, I’d tell my blog. Because you people always listen just the right way.

Anybody else out there want to complain that they’re tired? So very tired? If so, I’ll listen.

6 thoughts on “Too tired to think

  1. This may not help, but my younger son just this week started sleeping through the night (6:30 p.m. until around 5 a.m.), so I am markedly LESS tired than I have been.

    This is such a relief to me I can’t imagine how I functioned at all when I wasn’t sleeping six hours straight in a night. Of course, now it will all go to hell with teething or something, but at least I know it’s possible.

    Glad you’re feeling better now.

    • Hey Kristin!

      So glad he’s sleeping through the night. Both my boys magically slept through starting the June after their third birthdays. But then, with six straight hours came the suspicion that I was superhuman, which meant I’d try to get by on five straight rather than seven frequently interrupted.

      Five is not enough. Nor is six. I need to just remember everybody has the same 24 to contend with, and wishing won’t make it 30.

  2. If you’re still shaking when you think back to that moment in the middle of the empty intersection, I hear you, and here are my {{{hugs}}} Quite a few times I almost got us all killed and I tried not to reenact those “what if” moments inside my head.

    Yes, the Internet is always out there, listening. Do you think the Internet is a giant Introvert collective? Such a good listener, i mean…

    • I absolutely think the Internet is an introvert-enabler. That’s why BlogHer is so funny…thousands of people who need to pour their hearts out to strangers because they get queasy around actual humans. ;-)

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