Crazed Dayz

I was hot in pursuit of a giggling Julianna down the sidewalk between two teeball diamonds when I heard a woman off to one side sigh contentedly as she sank into a lawn chair. “Ah, what a nice, lazy day,” she said.

I nearly choked on a scream. Ninety minutes in the car—two schools in 2 ½ hours, two trips to the eye doctor’s, a dropof at the orthotics office, an in-home Cutco demonstration, impassioned discussions of patriotic music, three phone calls for CCL, four for Julianna’s health, and Julianna’s bus honking outside, because the baby was screaming after hitting his head, and I had lost track of time and wasn’t watching for its arrival.

And that was all before 1p.m. This is supposed to be summer, for crying out loud!

By 3:30, as the phone calls piled up and I penciled the results into the calendar, I gave up all hope of getting any writing done this week, and set out to make the nicest dinner Christian had seen in a while—complete with having it on the table when he got home. And then the phone rang again and he said, sounding harried, “There was an explosion on campus, and I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

Some days, I swear the Devil just points his little pitchfork northward and giggles at us.


I caught up to my giggling 3-y-o escapee, got her turned around with sufficient sternness to impart the lesson of obedience, and began walking back to the teeball bleachers, praying for peace of mind, the ability to release my negative energy. Because, after all, I suppose that these weeks days, when the commitments and distractions and annoyances pile upon each other like layers of silt in a flood—these days are gifts to be unwrapped, too.

tuesdays unwrapped at cats