It's Gonna be a Long Day: True Story

     I thought it was Max. My mind woke sluggishly to the moaning cries. Before I was completely awake I was groping for the bottle and formula, ready for the feeding that comes between 2 am and 5 am every morning. As I rolled myself out of bed to make the bottle and grab wipes and a diaper, I noticed something was off.

Max, in his bassinet next to the bed, was sleeping peacefully with the side of his face all squished onto the little mattress. The pitiful whining was muted. I stumbled my way to the door and opened it. From my door I could see my other kids' room down the hall. Vincent lay curled into the corner of the walls- where his bed snugs up against the wall, oblivious to the apparent agony of his younger brother.

As I entered the room my thoughts were turned towards bad dreams. Thinking to hug and sooth, I leaned down and immediately came back up for cooler air. I couldn't be near the heat radiating from his little body. The fact that he had a fever didn't surprise me because it  had reached 101.3 when I had taken it at 8 pm the night before, but the fact that it felt as though he could fry an egg at 50 paces had me worried.

It took longer than it should to take his temperature. I couldn't calm his and he sat in my arms, moaning and crying and miserable. When the under arm reading was only 99 degrees I knew it was wrong; so, I tried the  under the tongue method and received an only slightly higher 100.7. I am no expert, but I knew when you are too busy moaning to keep your mouth closed while a thermometer is stuck under your tongue.

Sadly, that lead to a rectal temperature being taken.

103.9!!!!!!  Poor guy!

Emergency Room here we come. Again.
Only two hours, but it seemed like we were there forever. Perhaps it was going in when night surrounded us and emerging when the sun shined with that special early morning brightness. The doctors in the ER at 4:30 am are a bit nicer and more personable than when the ER is busy.


So here we are at 8 am, Dimitri simmered down on Tylenol and Motrin and me jittery on lack of sleep (due to staying up until 1 am with crazy organizing) and my Aderol prescription.  It's breakfast time and my kids show no signs of sleepiness. Oh, Joy. it's gonna be a long day!

Being pulled back to reality



Have you ever been writing something and whatever it was, whatever path your thoughts were following suddenly veered back to reality? Something you wrote, something you thought, something you character said or did made you think of your life abruptly. Suddenly you realize the parallel.

I imagine this can be a good thing. Funny even, at times. But this time, it was not the case.

One small part of the reason I write is because I need something to keep the stress of life from crushing me. Without my writing and my books to read I fear I would collapse under life. I'd have an emotional breakdown...and I so hate those.

So as I wrote of a careless gesture, life slammed into my head and my characters, my story evaporated. And I was all that was left.

The kids in their beds. The lights off throughout the house. My little world silent. And me, sitting in the dark, typing away. My husband's letters in a stack near my elbow. Suddenly the worry and fear, the loneliness, the yearning for my other half was all but debilitating.

I sat for a moment, washed in self pity, in sadness. But I had a story waiting. I had to get back to Joylanna's problems. I placed my fingers on the keys, poised, ready for the journey to continue. When I looked at the clock I realized I'd sat, poised, for seven minutes, my mind blank of even the passing time.

I know I am an individual. I am strong. But my husband is my other half and I am therefore stronger with him.

And I am swamped with aching for him. His teasing. The way he absentmindedly runs his fingers through my hair. His endless tapping, like a drummer missing his drum. The mischief almost always present in his hazel eyes.
His arms around me, his head resting on mine, swaying gently is home to me.

I have my kids and the wonderful moments of watching them grow-even when they make me want to pull my hair out. It's love and happiness and hope and inspiration and protectiveness I feel with my children. It's beautiful, ultimate, and all encompassing. And different than what I have with my husband.

Can a writer pull themselves back into their story when this happens? Is there a technique? A secret? A ritual?
If so, I have not found it. So this night will be spent with a good book and a heart ache. If you know how to bounce back into a story when this happens, please share. If you have had a similar situation happen to you, I'd love to hear about it.