So, my happy news is only half as happy now. Plan A fell through. Plan B fell through. Plan C has yet to be formulated.
And bedtime for Smallest One has recently turned nightmarish. She won’t stay in her bed. She wants her back scratched until she falls asleep. She wants more to drink. She wants her nose wiped. She’s finally asleep, but not without tears (mine).
I told the older three they could have a slumber party down in the basement. I’m having second thoughts. The loud giggles are driving me nuts. I’m wishing I had tucked them all in bed upstairs when Nina went down. Oh, well. It’s not all about me, is it?
I’m sliding down the slippery slope toward the Pit of Pout. I recognize all the warning signs. My brakes are failing. I see the little emergency ramp thingys where I can save myself before I careen down the mountain out of control. But I haven’t decided yet if I want to leave the pity party while it’s still in full swing.
How’s that for a mixed metaphor? (Analogy? Onomatopoeia? kidding.)
Gabe’s trying to cheer me up, chiming in with words of encouragement and reminders of God’s sovereignty. I can’t decide whether to kiss him or kick him.