When I stop writing, it's usually because things are overwhelmingly good, or really, really, overwhelmingly bad. Right now, I'd have to choose the latter.
Unfortunately, too much marriage-stuff, which is off limits for this blog, will have to be saved for my memoir, which will either be published when I am dead or when my parents die. I can't decide which.
On Friday, our new daycare provider called me to let me know that she had given away MiniMan's spot to her cousin's child, who is having some kind of daycare emergency. Unbelievable. Guess who has the daycare emergency, now? I'm supposed to start work on Wednesday.
I don't typically find myself getting irate, but seriously, this woman screwed us over. So now, on a holiday, we're looking for someone (who does not cost more than I make) to watch MiniMan in a matter of days. I think my husband (a nurse) may end up trying to work evenings or overnights until we can get into a regular program. I guess it's great that he has that kind of scheduling flexibility, but I also know that he hates those hours and feel guilty. Ugh.
Stressors seemed to escalate and by Saturday my husband returned home unexpectedly early only to uncover my haphazard attempt at hiding the array of pharmaceuticals that I had collected and been gazing at. I don't know if I would have taken them or not. I was sitting there considering their prospective harm. Drowsiness. Dizziness. Seizures. Brain damage. Death.
Things aren't so bad, now.