Does your sanity hang low; can you tie it in a bow?

Haven’t posted in a while. Had some lovely days, had some hard days.

And today was just really freaking long.

Spouse was gone for five days a while ago. Couldn’t blog about that because all my stalkers would know I was home alone with the kids, which would mean 1)my 2am fears of bumps in the night would be heightened and I’d never go to bed and 2)I’d burn all my energy being nicer because I’m convinced some of my stalkers work part-time for Child Protective Services and are working to build a case against me.

As my father says, just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re *not* out to get me.

Anyway, it was hard to be a single parent. But not awful. We only had one of those dreaded nights when both kids were crying at the same time, at maximal volume, and nothing soothed them and they wouldn’t sleep and there were gloppy spills and major appliances breaking and plague and pestilence and identity theft. Otherwise the time while the biggest set of boy parts was away was deep-breath-and-chocolate hard but not debate-narcotics-and-google-self-help-books hard.

Thanksgiving was fine. Not the dream holiday I build it up to be but not nearly dysfunctional enough to even blip the humor radar.

The thing about Spouse’s absence and holidays and school days and weekend days and every stinking day is that I’m muddling through. It’s fine, I’m okay, everything’s middling…and that’s starting to drive me nuts. I don’t actually get anything impressive done. I don’t actually feel much meaning in the days. Highs, sure, because my baby is delicious. Lows, sure, because my baby doesn’t sleep and my preschooler is in a phase and I have no child care and my dreams are tied up tightly in the garage under so many other boxes that I don’t even have the time or energy to peek at my hopes and aspirations, let alone take them out and coo at them.

Shit is just marching on; I’m marking time.

Not really a problem, given the world’s problems, you know?

Tonight, after a decent day, each time one of the kids screamed at me it was like being hit with a sharpened rake. Painful and brutal and crushing and temporary and defeating. But also not rising seas or hulking deficits or torture or roadside bombs or amputation or malnourishment.

And I was all set to feel sorry for myself and pout and be depressed in ways that I’d just love to do, for once, since I don’t even get to shower or pee or cook something self-nurturing most days and would like to be selfish and eat from a bag and ignore everyone else on the planet for a while (thanks, Heifer International catalog for making that pretty much impossible).

But I couldn’t crack a pout after a friend sent this link.

Now *that* is why I read blogs. Because it’s good to remember that “baby less dangerous”.