This afternoon, I sat down to write. I mean, of course I was already sitting down, but I can’t help think of it as an action I still perform when I am committed to writing. Except that I wasn’t very committed. I ordered sweaters for myself and school clothes for Scarlett. I answered a couple of messages, but not all of them. I thought about the many thank yous I owe to our super generous #whatwouldyougive donors, but thinking about that was as far as I could get.

I’m tired. And I’m frustrated, because everything is hard. Because the dog keeps banging at the blinds in Scarlett’s room, and because my dictation thinks I said hanging instead of banging and banking instead of hanging.

I actually think I should be laughing. Otto is only going crazy because Scarlett put a life-sized skeleton in the front yard, and he clearly thinks it is here to kill us all. I should laugh because I can sit here ordering clothing online, which can only be considered a privilege. I should laugh because the other night when my niece was here for dinner, she toddled all over the dining room and then slid purposely and dramatically to the floor like a buttered noodle, face down on the walnut veneer.
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