Struggling with her jacket ... by jinterwas on Flickr, licensed under Creative Commons

I’m in transition. From steroid-addled scribbler to civilian with – maybe – a touch of cancer. (But still, a Sagittarius.) I’m lost in translation. Young A has stopped flipping his jacket like a toddler, and now gets into a fury when he chases his errant jacket sleeve around and around himself, like a dog whose tail forever eludes him. I try hard not to laugh. I try hard, at other times, to laugh. It’s good for the kids to see me laughing (not at them but with them). Young J gets furious when our conversation shifts to the 7 times table. There isn’t a way to turn it into a joke that I have found – at least not yet. I’m relearning how to sit at my computer instead of just using my phone, but the piles of papers on my desk sometimes make me flee, crawl back into bed. I have 25 minutes to prep chili ingredients and it’s going to happen. It can’t not happen. The boys were promised chili for dinner, and there tends to be hell to pay when my dinner promises are broken. Eating is serious business. It’s the only business I know right now. I’ll get out of bed now and prep, anticipating the hugs I’ll get at dinnertime.

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