I was dragging a bit Monday morning. The previous night went something like: sleep for two hours, wake to tend child who called out just long enough to get you out of bed before going back to sleep themselves, sleep an hour and a half, wake for dear wife’s early-morning-flight-alarm, sleep 50 minutes, wake to kiss dear wife goodbye for the week, sleep for hour and a half, wake with thoroughly enthusiastic children. 

At one point during the day, in a moment of quiet, I sat with my tired head in my hands, elbows on knees, eye sockets resting in my palms, when I was overcome with the sensation of being a skeleton wrapped in so much meat. Which was a tad weird. 

Certainly, on some level we all realize the nature of our mortal coil but often don’t think of it as such. But there on a bench, with the bones of my skull pressed into the bones of my hands, I could sense my entire skeletal network, visualize all the flesh and sinew wrapped around it, animating it. It’s interesting the things which rise to the surface when things are a tad off.

When Reed was younger–well, actually, even now–he’d happily sit in a shopping cart as I went about getting groceries or other staples. 

Rebekah? Not so much.

She’s more of, shall we say, a free spirit. So much so, in fact, that I now forgo getting groceries during the week so that I can do it on the weekend … and not take her with me. It’s a shame not to get such errands done during the week, when I have tons of time to do so, but alas, her behavior in stores has become nigh untenable.

However, I had to stop by the store today to pick up just a handful of items. A quick pickup, not more than five minutes really. 

Sigh.

So, the screaming began at the doorway. I dared put her in a cart when she specifically indicated she wanted to be carried. “What dreadfully atrocious service!” she noted. Or at least, that’s what I–and every other occupant of the store–could infer from her air-raid siren wails as I hurried, head down, through the bakery section. Then I was so recalcitrant as to tell her not to climb out of the cart. “Such hargy-bargy is absolutely intolerable!” she screeched, adding emphasis by bulging her eyes out at the end of the yell. 

During the course of our few minutes in the store, I received numerous “You’re doing a good job” comments from older ladies, two “Somebody’s not happy today” observations and one quiet, commiserating pat on the shoulder from a woman who didn’t say anything at all. 

Again, I was in the store for a total of five minutes. 

Sure, she fractured the glass in the display case with her screams, but she was fairly quiet as I hugged and calmed her slobbery, sobbing mass in the frozen foods section. Hmm, maybe they don’t call it the terrible twos for nothing. God, I love the little stinker.

Monday I get the call from the school nurse: you need to come pick up your son and take him to the doctor. He’d cut his lip with scissors.

So I break a few traffic laws getting there to pick him up, envisioning a laceration from the inside of the lip out, calling the pediatrician and lining up an immediate appointment for a possible suture. He’s such a cute boy, I think to myself as I pass yet another car, why can’t he take care of his beautiful little face?

Amy’s at the school before me, but I’ve got the car seats. Swing by home to drop off little sister and then Reed and I are back on the highway to the doctor’s. He’s quiet in the back seat, all big eyes peering over a bag of ice pressed to his mouth. We get there and I carry him in and on back into an examination room. Our ped arrives and I get my first real good look at the cut. It’s both not as bad and worse than I thought. It isn’t a front to back laceration like I’d expected, so no stitches. Instead, he’d completely cut off that little bump of lip right beneath the center of the nose. Gone.

I cannot imagine how bad that hurt.

But the nurse said he didn’t cry. He did bleed, though, all over and down his favorite little shirt. Many thanks to Shout for getting that out (albeit with three days of soaking treatment). Now he’s working the big lip scab. I try not–and fail– to think about that scene from Spinal Tap where all the band mates have simultaneous herpes outbreaks on their lips.

This is very likely making me old.

On a funny upside, Rebekah has begun referring to her lady business as her “pahgina.” Which just makes Amy and me roll.

i'm hard-pressed to convey how intense this week has been.  production in CA - i don't think i have ever worked so hard in my entire life.  but it was so fucking fun…  i'm sitting in my rapidly-emptying greenroom with that pit-in-my-stomach, end of summer-camp feeling.  i will exchange email addresses and promise to write and do so with fervor for a little while, until that newness wears off and this week will stand alone in my memory as one solitary time.  i didn't expect to feel melancholy at this point.

i surprised myself this week - proved to myself a lot about what i can accomplish when i bust my ass.  by october 1, there will be 17 professionally-shot and produced videos of me available on the internet, teaching the writing section of the SAT test.  i worked as the "talent" for silicon valley-funded start-up company, and had a camera crew following me around.  i shot footage on the street, and had onlookers applaud at the end of a take.  it's pretty cool to stand back and marvel that this is my life.

My toothpaste just fell off my toothbrush.

I realize that's insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but it's a minor symptom indicative of a larger constellation of symptoms. I'm having one of those … months. I'm dropping things. I say what I mean to say but don't say it the right way so the implication is screwed, I'm irritable and grumpy, I have headaches, I'm tired yet stay up too late, I'm not recovering well from workouts, I feel the strain in my shoulder picking up a child, and I've got a gazillion (technical term) little projects that need to get done but seemingly no time to get them finished off.

I feel off.

You know how somedays you're firing on all cylinders and you just seem to walk along magically catching everything that comes your way? You move just in time with the universe's beat and you feel sharp? Like, one time I was taking in a load of staple goods to the house from the car from the Big Bulk Club (you know it), and I was carrying a bunch of stuff in one arm and in the other hand I was holding a pack of 40 plastic-wrapped water bottles by the edge of the packaging. So the plastic at the edge snapped off … and I caught the entire case in mid-air with the same hand. That's the kind of do-no-wrong feeling I'm talking about.

Right now, I don't have it. 

I want to be easy and zen and relaxed and it is so not happening. In pottery terms, I'm trying to pull a pot but the clay wasn't centered perfectly. Stuff is just off and every rotation seems to sling it further and further out of whack.

"no more tears" by ozzy + a healthy dose of "zomg" + a wave machine of "wtf."

Tractionless days are no fun.

Tag team. I was awakened by various members of my family at 2:18, 3:05, 4:00, 4:24, 5:06, 5:30 and 5:57 this morning. I am tired. That is all.

 Note: I suppose this is the price one pays for being the center of the universe.