I've been rattling around this space lately, anxious to post, but ripped in a million other directions every time I sit down to write. I stop by, I click through to read a blog or two and maybe even comment on what I've read, but then I get distracted by other things before I can sit and write (case in point, I am in the middle of studying, and taking a break, and as I type this, the baby has awoken and is wailing, and thus far T. is doing a mediocre job of calming her down). Really, current wailing aside, things are great--the kids, T, learning Spanish, my job. Truly, life has been lovely. And yet. . .
Something is gnawing at me, and I don't know what it is. I feel unquiet, on edge and afraid of something that is just off my periphery and which I cannot see. I am constantly worried, before breakfast thinking a half dozen worst-case scenarios of all different stripes. I am slowly driving myself mad.
I think perhaps the problem is that I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, because things are indeed so good. I know what it means to struggle, to work hard, to try to overcome. I don't know how to exist in space where there is room to breathe, to live. It's making me antsy.
Okay, I really can't listen to that poor baby any longer. Daddy is lovely, but he's no mommy.