I want to get up and write. I really do. I plan to get up a little early – I am a crepuscular being, at my most active in the gloaming – when I will write, and it will be good, or at least better.
And then Raphael sit on my head and wails at 4:45am and I groan and sob and roll over to remonstrate or tend. And when that is over, it’s time to get up and face the day, to shower, to caffeinate, maybe even break my last. Empty the dishwasher. Pack the lunches. Take out the trash. Get the boys up and ready. Talk to Himself a little. It’s too much for one person, but Himself and I are a well oiled morning machine after 11 years. And before I know it, it’s 7am and we all should have been in vehicles and gone 15 minutes past. The early morning is gone, and I haven’t even said Lauds yet. Lauds is for the bus.
And it’s a pity, because morning is when I’m at my best, word-wise. I’m pithy and funny and in an interesting state of caffeination.
But right now, I’m so very tired. We have been traveling, and sick, and sick on top of sick, with all the attendant laundry and dishes that these things entail. I have a hard Christmas deadline for three wee sweaters that I wonder if I will make. We have children in need of comfort… at the loss of our own sleep, to the point where we are cross and gloomy and irritable all the time. the Advent wreath gets brighter, but the glow remains mostly external. It’s maybe too soothing a glow, we’re lucky no one has fallen asleep with the candles lit and burnt the house down.
And so writing is always the thing to give. This is a bad thing, my brain gets cluttered and confused and I can’t walk through my memory in the usual way, which leads me to forget things. Like "don’t make a full batch of Saint Lucy Buns, it overflows your mixer" or "Secret Santa is December 16th and you have someone in the cohort of coworkers that you can’t just give a selection of tiny boozes".
And now I’m being summoned by a child who says he doesn’t feel very good. Farewell.