I’ve scarcely left my house since last weekend.  My job responsibilities (for an online company) have increased recently and I keep accidentally working an extra hour or two each day.  I honestly don’t mean to, but then I look up and instead of seeing midnight on the clock, I see the small hand approaching two.

So I shut off the computer at 1:30 a.m. or 2: 00 a.m. and fall into bed, only to be awakened before 8 a.m. by my daughter.  My 11-year old son gets himself into the shower and off to school and sometimes (I am ashamed to even acknowledge this), I don’t even hear a thing.  (My husband leaves the house at 6 a.m.  I rarely wake up when he gets up and goes.  I know.  You had pictured me frying bacon and eggs while wearing an apron over my frilly bathrobe each morning, huh?  Well guess what?  I don’t have a frilly bathrobe.  And I’m a terrible wife, definitely not Southern-bred, because I have rarely cooked my husband breakfast before work.  Okay, not rarely.  Never.)

I’m not a morning person.

My daughter is a lot like me.  The other morning, she crawled into bed with me. She asked me to set the alarm for 18 minutes.  I said okay, set my phone for 18 minutes.  When the alarm rang, I said, “You need to get into the shower.”  She looked at the clock and said, “One more minute.  I’ll get up at 8:20.”

I have never told her that I prefer to get up on the multiples of five.  I don’t like to get up at 7:58.  I’ll wait until 8 on the dot.  If I sleep until 8:01, I’ll have to wait until 8:05.  If I miss 8:05, I’ll have to wait until 8:10.  I have some rules that must be followed.  This is not at all weird.

This can, however, cause some problems, like being late.

And so it did that morning with my daughter.  I had to sign her in and get a tardy slip that morning.  All because of the multiples of five thing that she doesn’t even know about.

So I take her to school.  Before school began I had these lofty plans about walking her to school and then continuing on for a long walk so I could get in my exercise.  The reality has turned out to be more like this:  Throw on sweatshirt and yoga pants.  Drive daughter to school.  Drive home, crawl into bed, check out email and Facebook on iPhone.  Doze off while listening to Regis and Kelly (after first marveling at Kelly’s perfectly toned, muscular arms).  Wake up reluctantly in time to shower and fire up the computer.  Begin work at noon.

This is bad for several reasons.

1)  I’m not getting any exercise.

2)  I’m not getting much of anything done.

3)  My life is slipping away while I’m dreaming strange dreams instead of . . . doing something worthwhile and valuable and creative.  Like cleaning out the storage room or sorting through my top dresser drawer (you do NOT want to know) or writing something stunning.

The problem is that I have to have sleep.  And I don’t think it’s unreasonable to supplement a measly six hours a night with a morning nap before work.  In fact, in some ways it’s essential because I don’t think I’d be able to work until midnight the next night without getting enough rest.

It’s a conundrum, really.  I have a little bit of spare time (in the mornings) but I squander it.

I’ve also been cooking dinner each night and believe you me, that is cutting into my time between the cooking and the serving and the cleaning up afterward.  That consumes my evening allotment of spare time.  Buh-bye.  Please take your belongings with you as you depart the plane.

How am I to write The Pretty Good American Novel if I don’t have ten minutes to rub against each other?

Well, now it’s past 1:00 a.m.  So I’m going to sleep.  But I wanted you all (all five of you) to know why I haven’t been writing anything pithy and amusing and thought-provoking here.  Because that part of my brain is broken.  And also I just don’t have the time.

*yawn*

Continuing my trend of forgetting things, I completely failed to purchase and prepare snacks for my daughter’s soccer game tomorrow.  I have to provide sliced oranges for half-time and a post-game snack for the six girls on the team.  Hence, I will lose an hour of coveted Saturday morning sleep so I can rush to the grocery store first thing in the morning.  How lovely.

We have to be at the soccer field at 11:00 a.m.  Last Saturday, the girls played in fierce slanting rain–the knees of my jeans were totally soaked because how can you ward off slanting rain?  But the girls had a great time and, as usual, crushed the other team.  I feel sorry for every team we play because this little team of girls has a great coach and some natural ability.   Tomorrow they say there will be no rain.  I hope they are right.

My son has a football game which will dominate my husband’s day.  They’ll leave at 9 a.m. and return around 3 p.m.  Our son loves to play and my husband loves football.  He does love it more when he’s watching a college game from the comfort of his chair, but will come later in the day.

I am looking forward to the end of the soocer/football seasons.  Only three more weeks after this.

In other news, my twin teenagers invited two friends to sleep over, only very little sleep will be done.  I don’t understand why it’s so much more fun to play Guitar Hero in the middle of the night, but apparently it is.

A little while ago I went into the kitchen to get a drink of water.  I heard a keyboard begin to play, then a guitar begin to strum.  I rolled my eyes.  Surely the boys didn’t think that midnight would be a great time to play their instruments?  I headed toward their room to scold them and then realized that the music wafted from my computer.

A pox on websites that have automatic music playing!

(Yes, this is three blog posts in three days.  Be impressed.  Be very impressed.)

A day or two ago, my 11-year old son let me know that he needed a gray cape for school tomorrow. Why? Because he’s going to be “SuperZach” for Superhero Day at school. (Who makes these things up? Spirit Week? Why, why?)

That’s why I forgot to pick him and his friend up from school today. I completely lost my mind and drove to the fabric store under the foggy impression that today was Wednesday. My day to drive carpool is Thursday. So when my phone rang while I perused the sticker aisle at Joann Fabrics, I wondered why my neighbor might be calling me.

Her: “Hi, I couldn’t remember if we talked about pick-up today . . . my son has piano lessons and his teacher will be picking him up today . . . ”

Me: “Yes, but I thought that was on Thursday?”

Her: ” . . . ”

Me: “Oh.”

Her: “Today is Thursday.”

Me: “Oh no. I’m in the fabric store.”

So she had to drive out to the school to pick up my kid. Because I am befuddled and bewildered and I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I ought to lose my Mom license. I’ve already lost my mind.

In other news, my first-grader has started reading fluently and her teacher told me during our conference today that all she really lacks is confidence in her abilities. Her only issue is her tendency to chat. A lot.

She’s my hula-hooping, boy-chasing, jump-roping, picture-drawing entertainment. Today, she got a fortune in her fortune cookie that read: “Soon you will receive something you’ve wanted for a long time.” And she started hopping around the kitchen singing, “I’m getting a baby sister! I’m getting a baby sister!”

What a hoot, that one.

p.s. The only way she’s getting a baby sister is if I die and my husband marries the Octomom.

She had hiccups.  She could not stop talking about the hiccups.  Consequently, I could not stop listening to her talk about hiccups.  We were driving down the road, so I was captive to her chatter.

She repeated her talking points:

1)  I’ve had hiccups for a long time.

2)  Why do I have hiccups?

3)  What makes me hiccup?

I replied with bland answers:  “Oh, you have, huh?” and “Everyone gets hiccups sometimes” and “I’m not sure.”

Finally, though she demanded an answer:  “What makes me hiccup?”

And so, in exasperation, I said, “Your diaphragm has involuntary spasms causing you to hiccup.”

Silence filled the car.

Then:  “What?  Mom, I don’t even understand what you said.”

And I said with eye-rolling attitude, “Grace!  You are asking questions which have answers you cannot possibly understand!  Stop asking!  Please!”

As those words slipped out, I thought of how many questions I ask that have answers I cannot possibly understand.  Why did my dad die so young?  Why did my husband have cancer of the larynx of all things?  Why were we infertile–of all people?  Why did our friend Andrew die in Afghanistan when he was just 24?  Why, why, why?

I believe in God.  I believe in a God of answers, a God of justice, a God of mercy.  And I don’t understand so many things, just as my 7-year old doesn’t understand so many things.  I am a child of God, emphasis on the “child.”

Every once in awhile, I have a little glimpse of God as my Father and I imagine Him saying to me, “Melodee, you are asking questions which have answers you cannot possibly understand.  Just stop asking.”

I will trust that Someone has the answers, even if I can’t possibly understand.  That’s enough for now.

I’ve been home for two days now and haven’t cooked a decent dinner yet.  It’s not that I don’t want to cook a decent dinner.  The problem is a lack of planning and time.  Tomorrow I am going to plop some frozen chicken breasts into the Crock-pot first thing in the morning (at the crack of 9 a.m.) so we will have cooked protein around dinner-time.  Maybe I will even transform that into an actual meal, complete with vegetables and complex carbohydrates.  Imagine!  But don’t get too excited because it might not happen.

Tuesday nights are complicated.  I work until 5:00 p.m.  My son has to be at football practice at 5:30 p.m.  My daughter has to be at soccer practice at 6:00 p.m.  Tonight, my husband came home at 5 p.m. (early!) to take our son to practice. (And see?  How could I provide dinner to anyone when I wasn’t even home until 7:00 p.m.?)

You should know that at 4:00 p.m., I said to my son, “Do you know where your practice pants are?”  He said that, of course, he did.  And then, at 5:00 p.m., he did not.  He.  Did.  Not.  So, I sprang into action, upending laundry baskets, digging through folded clothes, pawing through dirty clothes.  As a last resort, I ran into my own room and asked my husband:  “Do you know where Zach’s pants are?”

“They are in the bottom of that basket.”

And sure enough, they were.  Filthy knees, possibly stinky.  I didn’t sniff.  And off he went to practice in dirty clothes.

Then, at 5:50 p.m., I said to my daughter, “We have to get ready!”  We hurried upstairs so she could pull on her shin guards and cleats.  Except, of course, that the cleats were gone.  The shin guards were neatly tucked into her closet next to all her lined up shoes.  Minus the soccer shoes.

I began a frantic search for the cleats.  I was gone when she wore them on Saturday and had no idea where they might be.  I expected them to be in the closet.

I ran laps in the house, searching in all the obvious and ridiculous places (under the kitchen table, inside the dirty laundry basket, on her bed).  I was sweaty and annoyed and frustrated.  Finally, at 6:05 p.m., I called my husband at football practice.  “Do you know where Grace’s soccer shoes are?”

“Oh yeah.  They’re in the van.”  The van he had with him at the football field.

That noise you heard at 6:05 p.m. PST was me screaming.

So, while we waited for him to deliver the shoes, we sat in the car outside in the driveway.  I checked the mailbox and found a small stack of mail.  I stood by the car and sorted it, then opened the first envelope.  And that is how I acquired a large, painful paper cut on my index finger.

We arrived at soccer practice fifteen minutes late.  My finger was still bleeding.  What did I do to deserve all this?  (Besides not cooking a proper dinner for days?)

Tomorrow, I am driving to a chalet in Mt. Baker with my friend, Cari.  We are joining a bunch of women on a scrapbooking retreat.  Scoff if you must, but my photographs are in chronological order from 1993 until 2005.

Aside from the scrapbooking, I intend to devote some time to writing my neglected novel.  I’m nearly half-way through.  I had been devoting all my Saturdays to writing, but then soccer and football games started and I haven’t had a Saturday to myself ever since.  So, during my forty-eight hours on the mountain, I hope to write.

I will put my photographs in scrapbooks during my writing breaks.

Also?  I will breathe in crisp mountain air and walk on mountain trails.

So, you can see I’ve got my work cut out for me.  And that’s why I have no more time to devote to this blog entry.  I must sleep so I can wake up, load the dishwasher, pack some clothes, find the notes for my novel, shove my laptop into its bag, lug the scrapbooking supplies and photographs to the car-trunk, throw some clothes into the dryer, and remember to take my pillow with me so I can sleep while I”m gone.   Also?  I have to go pick up Cari.

I feel utterly guilty leaving my family for forty-eight hours.  But I’m going anyway.

Have a great weekend!  (And thanks for all the nice comments on my previous entry.  Someday I’ll get around to answering your comments which appear in my email box.)

Back in 1997 when we lived in Michigan, I had the pleasure of hiring an Amish midwife to attend my home birth.  She was a tiny woman with five children at home.  Soon after I met her, she became pregnant with their sixth child.  She, herself, was in her late forties.

For some of my prenatal care, I drove down a gravel road to her farmhouse.  I remember sunlight slanting through windows, eating homemade bread and homegrown cantaloupe.  I remarked about the softball sized rocks that they had to arrange around the foundation of the house each year and she said, “Oh, we like to do it.”  I would have complained, I’m afraid.  I remember looking out at the horses in the back pasture and tall sunflowers bending under the weight of their seeds.

During my labor, she gripped my hands with her smaller ones–the idea being she’d grip tightly and I’d relax my hands as much as possible.  Compared to everyone else, her grip was so strong–I realized later her strength came from daily cow-milking.  She was calm, serene and smiled easily.

And so this book, Amish Peace, resonated with me.  The stories tempted me to ditch the Internet and plow a garden.  (Not that I really could.  But if I could?  Would I?) Who needs electricity when you have an oil lamp, right?

• голова болит секс

• голова болит секс

голова болит секс

This non-fiction book by Suzanne Woods Fisher gives readers a glimpse into the Amish lifestyle.  She organizes the contents into five parts:  Simplicity, Time, Community, Forgiveness and The Sovereignty of God.  Each part includes real-life stories of Amish people and examples from their lifestyle.

I like that each smaller section is really small–only two or three pages–the perfect length for a nighttime read before bed or a morning read before racing through the day.  Just reading this book calmed me and gave me things to consider.  (”The Clockless Year”, for instance.  Imagine!  Or “Amish Stuff”, which made me want to purge the house immediately.)

This book proposes that “you don’t have to become Amish to make personal peace a reality.”

I have always been curious about the Amish lifestyle–prior to my personal encounter with the Amish midwife–and appreciate the additional insight into Amish life in this book.

голова болит секс

So, two thumbs up.  I like it!  It would be a good gift book for someone for Christmas (coming soon to a house near you!).  And if you buy it on October 5 (Monday), you’ll get a chance to win a basket of books.  (Details below.)

• голова болит секс

You should know that I received a free copy of this book to read.  If you’d like to have it when I’m done reading it (I didn’t finish yet), leave a comment and I’ll pass it along to someone (randomly).

“Available October 2009 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group.”

SPECIAL OFFER:  Buy a copy of Amish Peace, either online or at your local bookstore, on Monday October 5th and enter to win a basket of books published by Revell.

Once you buy the book send Suzanne an email (suzanne@suzannewoodsfisher.com) or leave a comment on her blog or Facebok page or email Amy (amy@litfusegroup.com) stating where you bought the book and how many copies you purchased and you’ll be entered to win the basket of books!