So you write something like this and the universe gets this gleam in her eye and begins to throw things at you. Frank gets a staph infection. A plague of bugs. Day and days of rain and gloom. A weird smell in the laundry hamper. Frank's infection gets better and then reappears on a holiday weekend. And I am completely overwhelmed. Unglued.
Only I'm not. Well maybe I am a little bit. I can feel that dervish spin just below the surface but I'm trying to resist. I'm doing what I can, where I am, with what I have. I'm writing this instead of stomping through the house frantically gathering laundry. I'm knitting the toe of Max's new sock. I'm breathing, breathing breathing. I'm baking bread.
I'm letting go of what I thought this day would look like and accepting what is. (My sister would say, "It is what it is.") This is all I can do today and it will have to be enough.