So I wake up at 4 am, ribs aching, needing ibuprofen. I eat cookie and grab another, and get out the milk so I won't be taking my pill on an empty stomach. On a quick check of FB, I see a post from Cassie that I really felt called for a reply. Our girl is really struggling, though not any more than you'd expect an Army wife with three young children to struggle on her husband's first deployment to a war zone. I wanted to share a message of support, but thought it best not to publicly post what I wanted to tell her. So I spent the next 40 minutes carefully crafting what I wanted to say, including beginning to discuss her request that we watch the younger kids for her between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Then I fat-fingered a set of keystrokes and lost my message (FB, you really can't ask me "Are you sure?" before I leave a page where I've been writing?), and then spent the next 40 minutes redrafting my message. By now I'm really beat, and even though I'm not really feeling any better, I send my message and head off to bed. There I have a really fitful and uncomfortable two-and-a-half hours, after which I get up to get ready to go to St. Helen and pull music for this communion service at Trinity, when what I really want to do is just get a couple more restful hours of sleep.
Then I walk into the kitchen, where I see the package of cookies sitting there open. And the milk sitting open on the counter.
And my pill.
No wonder it never really kicked in.
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