I am writing this while sitting in my kitchen, waiting for the washing machine to finish what has turned out to be the fifth unplanned load of laundry for the day.
I have many posts I would like to write, about the end of the last year and the beginning of this one, but at the moment I am stuck on this:
P. has three winter-weight sleep sacks and three crib sheets.
I tried to go to bed over an hour ago (as Q. and I have resolved to go to bed earlier which, by our already early standards, means in bed with the lights out well before 10 p.m.).
P. had vomited all over two sleep sacks and two crib sheets by 10:15 p.m., bringing her total number of vomits in the last eighteen hours to nine.
Since the odds of the final set remaining pristine for the rest of the night are not particularly promising, I am now waiting for the laundry to finish so I can transfer it to the dryer and then go, again, to bed, knowing that when I am woken up, again, by the despondent whimpers of my daughter, I can stumble back downstairs and pull them out of the dryer and get her clean and warm and dry, again.
I feel like so much of the time I have things I would like to write about, but the chaos of my current life intervenes, albeit not usually in as spectacularly messy a fashion as has happened today. But the general pattern holds true.