Funny how just a couple of days ago I was on top of the world, extolling the virtues of freelancing, talking about how great it all is.

I should really know better, by now. I am not all that smart, it turns out.

The little tickle in the back of my throat while I wrote the last post morphed into a full-fledged… ummm, crud… and by the time we started the party, I was popping Sudafed like candy. I am the master of the Game Face, though, and so got through the event without any problems. Afterwards, however, as I slumped on the couch with a few friends who stayed late, and someone may have commented on my Barry-White-esque voice. Hmph.
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[To start: Thanks so much to everyone who left such kind comments on my last post, right when my husband had rushed off to be with his mom, who's in the ICU. She's still in critical condition, but she's stable, and although no one seems sure of what happens next, this is---for now, at least---good news.]

Needless to say, it’s been a crazy week or two, here. All of the things I’d planned to tend to before the kids headed back to school, all of the fun things we thought we’d be able to squeeze in… well, not a lot got done. And now school is starting in a couple of days, and I’ve been telling everyone how “I can’t wait for school to start! I’m going to have so much time to myself, again!”

This is because I smoke crack.
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Hi. My name is Mir. And I… I… I’m a sleepaholic.

(Now you say… “Hi, Mir!”)

My story isn’t any different from anyone else’s, really. Despite society’s insistence that the average American adult should be able to function on five to six hours of sleep each night, the older I got, the more clear it became that I truly require close to eight or nine hours to feel “normal.” I knew it was wrong, I suppose, and yet… the sheets on my bed were just so cool, so comfortable. I gave in to their siren song, again and again. And when my schedule doesn’t allow for sleeping in (most of the time) I resort to napping.

I’m so ashamed. But I hear admitting my addiction is the first step in recovery.
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[I'm using this image here of... ummmm... a man shoveling, I think it is, because it looks tedious. Not because I am a man. Or doing any sort of shoveling. Nor do I live in a red triangle. Hey, the longer I look at that graphic, the more wrong it seems. Anyway. Pretend it's more appropriate, will you?]

Yesterday morning I set my alarm for 6:00 sharp and hopped right out of bed to do the work I normally get done on Sunday night, but hadn’t, on account of I was taking three entire days away from the computer. (Oh, I know, I posted here on Friday. That, my friends, is the miracle of future-publish. I really did take three days off.) I had taken a long weekend to relax and on Monday morning I felt so much better, except for the part where I didn’t.
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I’m going to do something a little bit different today, because I’m in need of a little bit of levity, for one thing, and because my head feels like it’s stuffed full of moldy spaghetti, for another.

(Did you like that visual? That’s why I make the big bucks, people. Stunning imagery, artisan-crafted to render you speechless. And a little bit nauseated.)

Anyway, I thought today you could help my post, because I’m all about the giving and whatnot, but today I could use a little bit of help. And also because no one doesn’t love a Mad Lib, except maybe people who are sticklers about that whole double-negative thing. (Again, with the writing mastery! Don’t hate me because I’m the second coming of Hemingway!)
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Yesterday I could not get the phone to stop ringing. All of the standard clichés leapt to mind: The phone was ringing off the hook! (Except, of course, that it’s a handset and a base—no hook.) The phone was attached to my ear! (Actually, I usually do speaker phone with clients so that I can look at files at the same time.) And so on.

This was particularly aggravating, yesterday, because my son was home sick. He’s an easy sickie; he’s happy to lay on the couch and watch cartoons or doze. Still, it’s not the kind of day where I want to be talking to clients for hours on end, if I had my druthers. (What the heck are druthers, anyway? Apparently I didn’t have them, yesterday.)
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I did something radical yesterday.

I took a long walk.

Oh, I know it doesn’t sound like much. But I have become so completely mired in my day-at-the-desk routine that it felt like a Great Big Major Deal to dig out my good sneakers and some workout wear. But I was caught up on work and we had an unseasonable and gorgeous day yesterday—70 degrees! Balmy!—and so I got myself together and headed out the door.

In the middle of the day. Like I owned the place!
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Some of you know that every so often, my kids go off and spend the weekend with their dad, leaving me footloose and fancy-free. Or, at least, as footloose and fancy-free as one can be when you are both a freelancer (read: someone who works all the time) and a big fan of planning.

(And by “big fan of planning” I of course mean “anal retentive.”)

Of course, having a kid-free weekend also means that my husband and I have the opportunity to work on projects around the house or go on an outing, too. So I try not to spend the whole time working. Ideally, such a weekend affords me the chance to either catch up on work or get ahead a bit, and to have some quality time with my honey.
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I suppose that most organized mothers are good about sticking to a schedule, regardless of whether they have another job besides catering to the small people underfoot. And if you work for someone else, adhering to a schedule becomes essential, I’d imagine, or you risk losing your job.

I am very organized about some things and less organized about others, and what I found as I began my life as a freelancer was that I am naturally given towards prioritizing and compartmentalizing my work. Whether a vestige from my corporate days or just a side effect of wanting to appear perfect to my clients, I’m quite good at conducting my life as Business Mir with near-military precision.
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I have seen the benevolent face of God, and He is Very Good.

He leaned very close to me—I felt his heavenly glow upon my cheek, I swear it—and said, “Child, I am the truth and the light. Follow in my ways and all shall be well. I command thee to dispatch thy children to one of my houses forthwith.”

I’m not sure I even know what “forthwith” means, but when God talks, who am I to argue? I went and signed my kids up for Vacation Bible School.

For five holy and blessed mornings this week, I am free. Free. Free to sit at my desk and work on assignments free of “she’s touching me” or “he took my toy” or “when can we go swimming?” If that’s not enough to make a person give out a hearty “Hallelujah!” then I don’t know what is.

In the discombobulation that has been moving and settling and not knowing people here and having no definitive summer plan for the kids, I had completely forgotten what it’s like to just have time to myself to work. I’ve been exhausted for weeks, and I’ve turned into one of those people who’s always standing around exclaiming, “Man, I don’t know why I’m so tired.” Perhaps because I’m working in 10-minute increments during the day while the children spin in circles around me? Perhaps because I then return to my desk after they’re in bed and work another two to five hours before turning in, myself?

Yesterday I got up early and showered and fed the kids and took them to a neighborhood church and signed them in and waved and went on my merry way. Back home again, I sat down and whipped out three assignments in what seemed like record time… and I got to drink my tea before it got cold.

I’ve got religion, baby. Vacation Bible School is the way and the truth and the light. Amen.