(pant, pant, pant)
I'm out of breath.
We were just dancing with Little Warrior. Actually, I was dancing, Dad was watching. LW has decided Mom is the dancin' fool, and only wants her as her partner. It is bedtime, so I tried Ice Cream, Sarah McLachlan, but after 5 seconds of tenderly laying her head on my shoulder, she began head-butting me, letting me know she wanted something more uptempo. So we've been dancing to Lithium, Nirvana.
Dancing in the kitchen, amongst vanilla-bean-Italian-buttercream-cupcakes, raspberry-cheesecake-brownies and plain ole from scratch brownies. Tomorrow is the church garage sale/bake sale. So I will be getting up quite early tomorrow morning.
Last year, March 31, I also got up very early. What a difference. What an amazing, wonderful, boring, ordinary, miraculous difference.
Tonight, a year ago, notwithstanding my blog post from earlier in the evening, I went to sleep ... and cried. And got very little sleep. LW was beside me; I remember holding my hand very lightly over her stomach as she slept. Over those huge, huge tumors. But even I didn't anticipate the news that one was the size of a grapefruit, one was the size of an orange. In that little bitty baby.
Tonight, a year ago, when I went to sleep, I didn't know what would happen in the next 24 hours. I didn't know if we would go into the hospital, three, and leave, two.
Until last year, I didn't know really know fear.
Tomorrow, I will wake up early, leave LW at home with her daddy, her brother, and her two sisters, and I will go do something so amazingly, wonderfully ordinary as a garage sale, where I will hawk brownies and haggle over the price of a bicycle with a customer.
When I was in high school, I played Emily in Our Town. Such irony, having high schoolers do that play. Who is least prepared to understand it?
Emily: ... Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you.