I know, I know, I know. I’ve been keeping a bleak blog here. Every time I update I’m all, “I’m stressed,” “I’m overwhelmed,” “I’m angry.” But seriously, I’m stressed and overwhelmed and angry.

I’m enduring my last week at home on maternity leave. I was excited about it this weekend. I was thinking, “one last week. One serious week to really get some stuff done and go back to work feeling accomplished and refreshed. Yay.” And then on Monday Rachel got chicken pox. And so she has to stay home for possibly as much as a week. And I kept Ethan and Hannah home for the first two days too because you can be contagious for 48 hours before you show symptoms and I was trying to be responsible. But Ethan hasn’t come down with it, so after two days home not sick and playing video games he now has to go back to school, poor baby. Hannah hasn’t come down with it, but her daycare person asked me to keep Hannah home one more day because her daughter is sick. And monday night Rachel kept getting up feeling feverish, or itchy, or to tell us off because when we put calamine lotion on her spots we missed three spots. And Tuesday, feeling exhausted from the getting up with Rachel, I thought I would nap when Hannah napped. And so, afternoon naptime rolls around, Rachel has fallen asleep in her room, Ethan is playing video games, but when I put Hannah down, she cries for two hours instead of napping. Nothing I can do will reconcile her to napping. She finally passes out around 3:30, and I lie down. And Rachel wakes up at 4:00.

Today, with Ethan back at school (the one who took the least of my attention), I’m all, “I need to do some serious writing today.” But, seriously, the six year old chatter. GOD, the six year old chatter. It never stops. I have to acknowledge every thought that pops into her head (and out of her mouth). And when I say, “I need some time to do some work (and have some quiet) so I’m not going to sit here answering every question and spelling out words for you so you can write something,” well, you can imagine the result. And it hasn’t slowed the chatter. And now she’s plinking away on her piano and running a commentary on everything she’s playing and why and how it affects people in a story she’s making up as she goes along. Fine, fine, FINE! You’re creative and you have a vivid mental landscape. I get it! You’re gifted. Why did I have to have three gifted kids? Or why couldn’t they be the reclusive kind of gifted? Also, why couldn’t they have had chicken pox a month ago?