The morning dawns and the boy’s fever broke last night. I wake with him tucked into the middle of my bed, my husband huddled far on the other edge. If he weren’t still recovering, the boy would shove both of us off the sides with his voracious appetite for space. He’s been fierce with his bony elbows and knees since he was a baby, and today he is nine years old.
And I have a party to plan. It’s a school holiday. I’ve promised soup, a cake made of big cinnamon buns, candles, hot cider. (Need mugs, spoons, the special candles, matches, napkins…) I sit slowly, find my wooly slippers, and move toward coffee.
“So much work to do,” is my mantra these days, so much work put off, so many really important projects to attend. The birthday party is simple, the weather crisp and cold and we need hot liquids—I can do that. We are meeting at a state park, with the intent to have a treasure hunt but if we just climb, I’m not complaining. I will prevent children from flinging themselves off rocky precipices, for the most part, and I will feed them. Everything else is extra.
Grad school writing is due tomorrow. I’m researching house-buying, of all things, though that may not even be possible. (It’s a beautiful, simple place—I’ll keep you posted.) We would miss our view, but I’d love to solve our need for another bedroom just that quickly. My to-finish list is huge, bulging with details. I finished a book last night and am still mulling it for an annotation. My daughter needs a ride from her sleepover with a friend, in an hour.
Black beans are simmering. Onions and garlic and carrots are next. The cake is all set. The box fills with stuff for the party…
And I need coffee. And maybe to get dressed.
Back to you soon.
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