Let's Put This Baby to Rest, Shall We?

I am sitting in my very messy kitchen, grateful that the sun is shining and the trees are blossoming, drinking coffee and getting myself mentally prepared for a weekend of Little League baseball. And breathing a big sigh of relief that this week has limped to a close.

During the past week, three project deadlines converged in my freelance life. Two are in the hopper, one still looms.

During the past week, all five of my children got to hear some angry lady yell to me: "I don't give a f*** about your f***ing kids, bitch."

During the past week, my 73-year old, bicycle-riding father played chicken with a truck, and lost. He is in the hospital with a broken pelvis, multiple contusions, and a humbled sense of gratitude that he was not killed.

Oh, the stories this week could tell. And I would give this week its voice if I didn't need to go do laundry, find baseball socks, rouse and feed the masses, and get everyone off to the Opening Day Parade for Little League.

The stories are swirling. But they will have to wait.

Note to self: Keep telling my children that no matter what the idiot members of humanity do, as long as we have each other, we can take care of each other and be OK in this great big crazy world.

Note to self, 2: Don't wait until tomorrow to tell someone you love them. Don't wait until tomorrow to do that thing you really want to do. Don't wait until tomorrow for anything that truly matters, because trucks that drive 45 mph can do more than break a pelvis.

Here's hoping next week has different, better stories to tell.

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