Only in Time

We’re running on fumes around here. 

The Rental.  It’s almost done.  The last -my husband better not even think about buying another condemned crack house for at least a year- house is nearly finished.  I took some almost-finished photos today, and hope to post some before-and-after shots for your enjoyment, sometime soon.

Don’t hold your breath, though.

The Puppies.  Nine of ten have gone to their new homes, and I am relieved.  Taking care of puppies is a lot of work.  But I’m also inexplicably sad.  The house feels empty and quiet.  Their mom keeps digging under the fence to go looking for her puppies.  I look into her eyes, and I wonder whether I’m cut out for this business.

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The Work.  Owning and running a small business, especially in a flailing economy, is a lot of flipping work.  There aren’t pee-ons to do the crap jobs, you can’t even think about quitting, and people tend to push and shove and demand a mile when you offer an inch.

So, what happens when you want to go on vacation, or you get sick, or you just want to have an uninterrupted dinner on occasion?  Well, you pretty much don’t take family vacations, you consult with clients between bouts of diarrhea, and you end up eating dinner three hours later than you intended.  Every. single. time.

The Blogs.  I love this space, and I have so many unwritten posts floating around in my head.  But there is no time to write, to cultivate, or to read the blogs I love.  I am creating a corn allergy blog with a friend, something I’m incredibly passionate about.  But I refuse to publish sub-par content on something so important, and so it sits, neglected but full of potential.

The Kids.  When life is going by at 100 miles per hour, I don’t give my kids the kind of attention I think they deserve.  Their needs get met.  They eat meals on tv trays.  Baths are every other day.  Bedtimes get later and later.  Time for creative play and cuddling go out the window, and we all feel the loss.

When finally I get them into their beds, they ask me to stay.  I lay, quietly, trying to calm my breathing so that they will relax and fall asleep.  They stall.  Ask for water; declare the need to potty; fidget.

Time passes.  I peek over to see if their eyes are truly closed, and am amazed to discover I can see their futures there in the dark, etched into their sleeping faces.

They are taller and stronger and more capable than they were yesterday.

Soon it will be tomorrow, which will become next week.  Before I can blink my eyes, they will celebrate birthdays; lose teeth; refuse to hold my hand.

The list of a million things I need to accomplish before the sun rises over the mountains sits on my desk; their eyelashes rest gently on their smooth cheeks.

I slip into the space between them, and quickly fall into a peaceful sleep.