|August 28, 2000
Where Does It Hurt?
I knew that today was going to be tough, now that all three of the Tot Visits are finally over. I just don't think I had any idea how tough.
Basically, everything hurts today.
My head hurts. My teeth hurt. My feet hurt. My calf muscles hurt, from climbing the hill above The Cliff House after brunch yesterday morning. My neck hurts, from twisting around and looking up at the sky as we drove away from the airport yesterday afternoon. My eyes hurt, from last night's prolonged bedtime *Boo Hoo Moment.*
(My poor decimated bank account is SCREAMING IN AGONY. But that's another story for another day.)
Most of all, my heart hurts. My heart is one big raw bloody bruise, banging painfully inside my chest this morning.
But we knew that already.
To further complicate matters, both Franz AND Mother Nature -- sensing momentary vulnerability, I suppose -- have launched preemptive strikes against me today. I am crampy and cranky and hugely hating them BOTH at the moment.
It's my lunch hour. I've been sitting here for the past forty-nine minutes, looking at an empty Notepad window on my computer screen ... fingers curled above the keyboard, poised, ready, fueled by caffeine, waiting for inspiration ... wanting to tell you all about our weekend with Daughter #2: all of the fun stuff that happened and how much we enjoyed it ...
... and all of the not-so-fun stuff that happened, and how we fixed it and made things *fun* again ...
... but no matter how hard I concentrate, nothing seems to want to download itself from my head to my fingers to the keyboard to your computer monitor.
(Which of course just makes me feel worse. Guilt heaped on guilt. Twin peaks of guilt. A double-decker Guilt Sandwich. You call yourself a mother/an Internet journaler/a "writer?" You've just spent your entire lunch hour crying out loud, forcryingoutloud.) I can't imagine that writing is going to get much easier tonight after I get home, either: the mere sight of Kacie's half-empty box of Cap'n Crunch, on top of the fridge this morning, was enough to send me into paroxysms of grief.
Sitting at the computer attempting to translate pain into prose is going to be beyond me tonight, I'm afraid.
Instead, I think I might follow the advice I received from a wise and empathetic pal last night. She sent me an e-mail, simply entitled "Quit Crying." The entire thing reads: "Go have a bed picnic and snuggle." I think that maybe tonight I might do precisely as she suggests.
Except I might skip the "bed picnic" stuff (unless a bowl of Cap'n Crunch counts?)and go straight to the snuggling.
I could use it.