I have a ton of new readers (or at least new Facebook followers who I hope will be readers). I think normal people would be excited about that. I, on the other hand, am suddenly gripped with an inability to write anything because what if they hate me? I think most of you have gotten here via the “The Dishes Can Wait” essay, which was sort of my pinnacle of sarcasm, hyperbole, and snark.
I have this recurring stress dream where my favorite band is playing in town and I don’t know it until it’s almost too late. Sometimes I miss the show, sometimes I barely make it. Sometimes I’m in my underwear. Like you do.
I no longer know when one illness begins and another ends. In the last month I had a cold, Zach, Rowan, and I have all had a stomach bug, Lorelei had a high fever, both kids got pink eye, Rowan had an ear infection, Rowan got another stomach bug, Zach got pink eye, Lorelei threw up, and this morning Zach and I both woke up with sore throats.
Christmas was good. Our Puppy Surprise tree worked out wonderfully. I wanted to write a whole Christmas poem about it but I didn’t because, ya know, reasons.
Like 2015, 2016 has been a Jekyll and Hyde sort of year. Last year it was the dichotomy between Rowan’s birth and Rowan’s existence. Something that made my life so much more difficult and scary also filled it up in amazing ways.
When I started writing more publicly late last year, I could not have foreseen just how often I would write about obsessive-compulsive disorder. But at some point in my slight breakdown after Rowan’s premature birth I completely ran out of fucks to give.