I’m in the midst of revisions for All the Difference (the book! the book! I’ve gone crazy and wrote a book!). I have about three more weeks until I’m due to deliver the manuscript to my editor, and just discovered that the changes I made aren’t as big as the changes I need to make, and oh my gosh, I have to get a move on.
So I baked some cookies.
No, I’m just kidding. I’ve been working like crazy, early in the morning and right after breakfast and whenever the kids who aren’t in school are playing quietly enough that I can concentrate and not feel guilty about neglecting tiny people. I bake the cookies while Saoirse’s doing her homework before dinner.
What I’m really trying to say is that PANIC HAS SET IN. Overall, though, I’m feeling pretty good, other than the underlying current of that panic that’s continually coursing through my coffee-addled veins. Other than that. The big girls are settling into their school schedules, and I am thrilled to be in a routine again. I’m waking up early, cheerily tucking insanely expensive apples (if you want to forget about early retirement, accidentally buy some organic Honeycrisps) into backpacks (that’s the coffee working). I’m whistling as I put away the laundry, and setting the table for the third time in the day. I feel–dare I say it?–organized. I am not accustomed to this feeling. It is nice. And it’s also nice to be able to focus: on the book when I’m working on it, on Saoirse when she’s doing her homework (UGH. Homework. I apologize to every student of mine I ever had, because UGH. Homework). Books are being read–everything from Rosie Revere, Engineer to Who Pooped in the Park? (thanks to my bro for that one). Actual crafts are being made, mostly because they were assigned by Quinn’s preschool teacher, but still. MADE. And without last-minute trips to the amusement park, or oversleeping because hello, it’s summer, proper, wholesome meals are being cooked, fruit and veggies are often consumed.
I am on a deadline. Panic is still there, coursing along. But. BUT. It’s part of it. All of it.
Quinn was sitting on the couch yesterday after lunch. She didn’t have school, and had spent a lazy morning playing with her little brother and watching more TV than she should’ve because Mommy Had to Get Her Work Done. I’d just put Cian down for his nap, and had come downstairs to clean the peanut butter and half-eaten cherries off their plastic, probably not BPA-free, Target Dollar Section plates. I’ve no idea what Quinn was doing–I’m pretty sure she was just lying on the couch, hanging out–and out of the blue, she said, “Being happy is fun.”
Being happy is fun.
I said, yes, Quinn. She was smiling at me.
Yes, it is.
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