Yep, still here. We're recovering from my mother's 60th birthday bash in Colorado. The one I've sort of dreaded for numerous logistical reasons, all of which were as wearing to navigate as we expected -- renting gear to baby-proof a condo sight unseen, making a multi-tenant kitchen away from home allergy-safe, arranging day- and night-time child care in a city we don't live in, getting my parents, who haven't had young children in three decades, to understand, or at least accept, the limitations on our participation in a fundamentally non-baby-friendly vacation. Add to that the unforeseeable altitude sickness D. got (and refused to recognize for what it was until he was unable to do much of anything), and you have one strung out Troubadour holding it together with nothing but ... well, nothing.
It's good to be home. Even with a teething toddler and a cracked water heater competing for my attention.
I've spent the little downtime I could steal since our return wrangling words on the whole experience, but I'm getting nowhere and that's usually a sign I need to step back from the mess for a while. Or maybe all the scribbling is already what it needs to be -- for my eyes only -- and nothing more.
I promised myself that I would write my way through what looks to be a tough year. And I am. It's just not worth subjecting anyone else to at the moment ...
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