It is going to be a day and a half, that much I know right now.

Emma is home sick again today. She is looking better and has been a bit on the whiny side this morning, which tells me that she is feeling more like herself. Ha. But I wanted to keep her home for one more day, to keep an eye on her and be extra, extra certain that she is well enough to go to school. She woke up yesterday evening on the couch, burning hot and screaming at the top of her lungs. And that was after telling me that she was feeling better. So, I’m not taking any chances. If she’s not well by tomorrow, I will have to take her into the clinic or the emergency room to see someone. But I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

That’s one.

Kate is in rare form this morning and believe me, that’s saying something! She has been all worked up, charging around the house like some kind of cute demon, climbing into her brother’s play pen and lifting him up repeatedly. She’s also been standing on kitchen chairs to look out the window and ask me questions to which I couldn’t possibly know the answer. She has been invited to a friend’s birthday party on Sunday, which also happens to be Emma’s birthday. It’s the only card I have left to play with that little almost five year old. I’m keeping it on hand at all times… “there will be no birthday party at Kaylee’s!” I’m not sure if it will work or not. And that’s what is really scary.

What is it with Kate? I used to say that her craziness was because her four year old switch had been ignited. And I believed it, having gone through something similar with Emma when she turned four. But Kate…well, she’s * this * close to not being four anymore. She’s * this * close to being five. And my memory tells me that the switch gets flicked back into the off position around this time. Not so, eh? Because Kate is not an Emma any more than Emma is a Kate.

That’s two.

And as if I don’t already live in the loudest house in Canada, what with the high pitched screaming baby and the almost five year old, Kate, who doesn’t have, “indoor voice” as part of her vocabulary, and the television set to Treehouse and Play With Me Sesame and Wonder Pets and whatever the fuck else is going on in the moment and Emma whining about her head or her tummy or her annoyance with Kate or the way the sun is hitting her face as it shines through the front window. As if all of that wasn’t already enough, the roofers are here this morning. I shouldn’t complain, I know. The roof needs to be done and they’re all quite confident that the job will be finished by this afternoon. And we can stop worrying and also know that when it comes time to sell this heap, we can advertise the fact that it has a new roof (A-ha!). But good goddamn! It sure is loud. The guys walking on the roof, scraping the old shingles and throwing them onto the lawn, which is covered with an orange tarp. The guys shouting at each other over the loud music blaring from one of the trucks. The guys climbing up and down, up and down and drawing Kate closer and closer to the window over and over again to feed her nosey habit. The light fixtures are rattling and shaking and jingling. It feels like my computer chair is shaking just a wee bit. It’s going to be a day and a half.

That’s three.

In addition to the unbelievable noise of the roofers, there is the extra bonus of not really being able to leave the house. Obviously, the yard is out of the question for playing. We’d be in constant danger of death by flying shingle. And the yard, both front and back, are obviously covered in their materials and our old shingles and there are three trucks in the driveway belonging to them and a huge dumpster right in front of our breezeway door. And get this…it’s a beautiful day outside. The sky is clear. The sun is shining. And it’s going to warm up nicely by this afternoon. And we’re stuck inside. All day. Or at least until the roofers are finished for the day. It’s times like these that I wish I hadn’t picked to live in the country. Times like these when living in town sounds like a grand idea. At least we could walk somewhere. At least we could escape during times like these. But instead, I’m stuck.

I’ve been saying those words about this house for too long now.

That’s four.

And as for me…well, it’s been awhile.

I went to bed at around one o’clock but didn’t fall asleep until about two thirty or so. I had to stay in my bed because Emma was sleeping on the couch (why is it that sleeping on the couch when you’re sick makes you feel better, anyway? Because it so totally does…). This sucked on a short term basis, but in the grand scheme of things, it was probably for the best. My options were limited. Very limited.

Rock didn’t wake up when I got into bed. And even my tossing and turning and deep breathing in an effort to calm myself down didn’t make him stir. He must have been really tired. I tried so hard not to be disappointed. I tried so hard not to panic at his slumber. I tried so hard to stop myself from kicking him and nudging him and whispering to him. None of it worked. He went right on sleeping. And I cried. Because then I was left with nothing. No space for release.

So, I laid there for over an hour and a half, breathing deeply and counting backwards. Telling myself over and over again that it was okay. I was okay. Trying to slow my heart down. Trying to close my eyes and see only blackness. I finally remembered something that I used to do when I was a little girl. Something that would calm me down and allow me to sleep. Something my mother scolded me for doing a long time ago.

It took a while. Because as I’ve stated many times about another girl who shall remain nameless, generally speaking, the self destruction gains in intensity. The old habits won’t work any more. And you start to need something stronger. Something harder. Something to get the job done. Nobody keeps doing the same thing over and over again for decades. It would lose it’s effectiveness as one got used to the sensation and the pain and the ritual itself.

But last night, I didn’t have many options. The living room was occupied by a sick, sleeping girl. Rock was sound, sound asleep. And I couldn’t breathe myself into a settled state.

So, I dug deep. Found an old ritual. One from my childhood and while it took quite a while to work, eventually, it must have, because while I don’t exactly remember falling asleep, I do remember waking up.

That’s five.

Today, I have two e-mails to answer. I’ve been mulling them over in my head all morning. And truthfully, I’ll likely be mulling them over for awhile before I can answer properly. Unsure of what to say. How much to say. How much to keep to myself. It’s not my story to tell, after all, and if I tried, I’m scared of not being believed. How can I possibly know? How can I possibly understand? Linear time is so short.

And yet, sometimes, it feels like forever.

I have to keep my words limited to my own perspective. But that’s a fine line, too. Because my perspective is blurred with his perspective. And my perspective is blurred with my love for him. The two long ago merged into one and it’s increasingly difficult to figure out where one begins and the other ends. And it’s increasingly impossible to describe.

This is something better done in person. It’s not my battle to fight. And yet, I also feel as though I should be there.

But I can’t be.

Not soon enough, anyway.

That’s six.

And yes, I’m backsliding. Not in the same way, granted, but the sensation is there just the same. Because I’m scared of going the wrong way. Making a mistake. And damaging too many people in the process. It’s not too hard. It’s just too confusing.

And yes, painful.

And it’s been awhile since I’ve felt this way. Long enough that I had started to hope that the feeling wouldn’t return. But it has. Different, but just as strong.

That’s seven.

Which is supposed to be a lucky number so I’ll shut up here. Lucky for you! Ha!