Every time I leave the house, I have to fight my way through hordes of adoring fans waving their laptops at me. They do this because there’s nothing paper to autograph, because, as several of my sisters in Christ have recently pointed out in an effort to promote more charitable discourse, I haven’t written a book yet. All’s I do is blog, blog, blog, which is no more difficult than taking a seat on the keyboard and bouncing a few times. Blog, blog, blog! Here I go again.
Some people (coughmarksheacough) make this look easy. He can blog with his left hand while writing a book with his right. Heck, sometimes he writes one book with each hand and just lets his beard do the blogging. I may be the least feminine female ever, but I am happy to report that my beard, at least, is woefully undeveloped. The most it’s been able to accomplish is to make me feel gross and old—and, so far, gross and old don’t write no fine prose. At least not the way I do it.
The Archbolds, too, churn out content left and right without breaking a sweat. Of course there’s a distinct possibility that they find it easier to keep up with their hectic schedule because there are TWO OF THEM. And here I am, doing what they do, except backwards and in heels (by which I mean wearing pajamas and sobbing uncontrollably). And, oh yeah, being just one person. Well, technically I’m zoned as a double occupancy dwelling for another five months, but I don’t allow my fetus to stay up all night typing. Not until he can make his own coffee, anyway.
Then there’s Jen Fulwiler, who was put on earth to make other women look lame. I met her! She was pregnant! And she had heels on, and walked around in them! Also, plus, she writes books and articles and columns and two blogs and is on the radio and TV and is in training to be the terran representative aboard the next shuttle to Mars, which she helped to design as part of a homeschool project with her intensely happy and well-rounded children, who know how to pray the Rosary in three languages. But did you hear what I said? Pregnant! Heels! How am I supposed to compete with that?
I would envy Steven Greydanus for his incredibly sweet
career as film critic, but then I remember that the poor fellow has become familiar with the entire oeuvre of Kevin James, and has to say stuff about it, presumably without throwing up or biting his keyboard in rage. So, Steven is okay.
What I’m trying to tell you is that last night, I stuffed my third load of laundry in the dryer, set up the coffee, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed around 11:30. There I slept until 3, which is the traditional hour at which pregnant women lumber off to the bathroom. I then returned to bed for a rollicking sport called Unbridled Panic.
It’s so entertaining: My brain unbuckles itself entirely from reality, and starts off in six directions at once, straining with equal intensity after problems that I can easily solve (“Rats, I forgot to order more checks”), imaginary problems that I can’t solve because they’re imaginary (“My feet itch! I must have picked up bedbugs when I was looking at that rug at the Goodwill!”), actual problems that I can’t solve because it’s 3 a.m. (“What are we going to do about school, and money?”), and completely bogus problems (“Oh lord, there’s so much rhubarb”).
This goes on until the robins start to sing and the sun peeps through the towel I tacked in the window because my rotten kids keep wrecking the curtain rods. I drift away long enough to have a few nightmares about a dark hotel full of wolves and rubber bands (shut up, it was terrifying), and then it’s time to get up.
One kid can’t find her bathing suit and it’s almost time for day camp; the other needs help nailing bits of wood to a clementine box. The two-year-old, who looks as well-rested as I do, asks (and this is an exact quote), “Mama, can I have graham crackers dipped in spaghetti? Does that sound nice? Maybe not. Can I have the last plum I ever seen?”
Luckily, we do indeed have plums, so she trots away happily, wagging her diaper behind her. I get everyone fed and changed, take some meat out of the freezer, start some laundry, get some coffee and sit down to write.
What I’m trying to tell you is that, from time to time, someone sends me an email that says, “Ms. Fisher, what you say doesn’t completely make sense.”
What I’m trying to tell you is: I know, I know.