Practice

I slept only 3 hours last night. My back aches uniformly from bottom to top, and my arms have that clenched, burning sensation in the triceps that I associate with sleep deprivation. I prowled around the house this morning cursing the people I love for whatever random offense I could lay at their feet. I must be getting a little better, because I recognized that I was irrational. I still have a ways to go, though, because I didn't quite get it under control before I got in the car with Burgundy for the ride to school.

I arrived home about 6:45 and made myself a latte. I took off my pink pajamas with the sudsy rubber ducky print and put on jeans and a t-shirt. I slipped out the front door as I heard Holden stirring in his bedroom (where he sleeps with Daddy) and ensconced myself on the swing in the front yard with my computer.

Here I sit with my now-empty coffee cup. I posted some thoughts on The Hunger Games and its third book, Mockingjay, on Facebook; my mouth tastes like a dirty disposable diaper smells. Off-putting, as aftertastes go. Is it the milk, the coffee, the lack of sleep or the pregnancy?

I miss my blog, and I miss journaling. I miss writing for an audience, the anticipation of knowing they'll love it, wondering if they'll hate it, or not giving a rat's ass because I need to get it out. My connection feels broken, though, and when I sit at the computer, I think of the to-do lists, my schedule, the ways I should be playing with my children, and I give up trying to figure out how to connect. How to make myself care enough about an audience to write something for it.

I suppose that's all. I don't feel connected, but I have written, and now I want to knit. La vie est si bonne.