Perpetually Unready

Dear J-

Me me me. All the time, me. Once I walk out that door in the morning it’s all about me, mainly because once I get back, it’s not. It’s a strange dichotomy, and I have trouble switching gears once I’m back home; kids will need to get up in the middle of the night and cats will crawl on me and there are a million different other things to have to worry about but that’s life and part of the package we signed up for. I sometimes think the sharper analytical skills have atrophied in favor of an irritable punctuated sleep; I don’t know why they’re having trouble getting through the nights but it affects me the whole rest of my day.

What can I control? Screen time. My bedtime. Consumption of sweets. Discipline. There are a lot of tools and it’s not the end of the world to have a little rowdiness before bed but the last few nights I’ve been reading to an empty room as they run up and down the halls. It’s not fair to them and I fear that any guests we might have will only be horrified to deal with it. I still remember the first time I flew with theVet to Cheney and had my young cousins pulling on my arm and begging me to come play and Power Rangers-style kicking me. Those kids have turned out all right so there’s hope for ours yet.

Well, that was deeply unpleasant: I forgot to tag on to the train and got a citation. I feel like a terrible person.


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