Sometimes

Sometimes a babe with a fever that outlasts sunrise and sunset and a cry that keeps you holding on, nursing just one more time is a lot like house arrest.

Sometimes whispered tiptoes away from a lightly sleeping baby feel like stealing a tube of mascara as a teenager while looking the shop keeper in the eye.
Sometimes a blog with an old post starting you in the face is a lot like pulling into the ferry lane as the boat sails off. Weeks pass like the hours you spend waiting for the next sailing with three little girls and a dog that wants back to the island immediately. Posts pile up while the unedited photos line like cars in the terminal’s overflow lot.
Sometimes hurrying a three year old feels like a bathing suit on a grey day all fifty degrees and foggy.
Sometimes there’s a play in your head without enough time to see it through to ink.
Sometimes, well, sometimes you can only do what needs to be done.
Some nights look like unedited photos: parade smiles all patriotic and sticky, camping grime all salty and s’mored & anniversary love all vintage truck and beach date.
And some nights are like this. Or, some nights end like this.
Now, no fog horns blow, no children wake from a fever or nightmare. No child refuses sleep with just one more book, one more potty try, one more sip of water.
You want to be right here and write here. But, the now-darkening sky at ten o’clock tells of a flourishing garden needing water. The moon may be out and, if so, you need it to clear your thoughts.
Sleep well, for tomorrow is a new day.

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