Dear Blog,

I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you lately, sorry I’ve put you on the back burner, out of sight (yet not out of mind—I still compose the most amazing posts in my head where they do all of no good), sorry I haven’t poured forth all the craziness running around in my brain like I need to so I can stay sane. There are only a certain number of hours in every day and sadly, darling blog, you don’t scream for attention…like certain others in my life.

See, life as a single parent, something I never ever wanted but am forced into all too often, is not very easy. No, Mr. Man-thing and I haven’t split. Hell didn’t get that cold yet. But it is summer, not that you can tell from the weather, and that means harvesting, preparing the ground for the next crop, and eventually sowing it. It means hay and straw, wheat and barley, and that lovely thing called rape—not the violent kind, the eco-fuel kind. It also means going to sleep in an empty bed and waking up in a bed just as empty, even though it’s a shared bed for a few hours in-between.

Three young kids keep me occupied constantly. I haven’t even been able to pee in private since The Au Pair went home. Well, that’s not exactly true. I did try to tinkle with the door pulled to, but Pooplette took advantage of that and climbed the stairs so quietly that I never heard a thing. I found her sitting on her father’s computer on top of his desk, a full meter and a half above ground level, in a hallway with a huge, half-opened staircase in it—so not exactly the safest of play areas. And considering what that monkey is capable of…well, let’s just say I’ll be leaving the door wide open from now on.

In between runs to the emergency room, the doctor, the dentist and all other things that go on in normal life, I’ve also had to ride out to the fields carrying lunch, water, and a smile to my other, absent half. I’ve tried so hard to keep a positive outlook through this harvest season, and because of that I’ve been able to keep the self-indulgent rants to a minimum. And it seems to be working. Mr. Man-thing and I are still on happy terms this late in the season, something that usually only lasts about four hours into the harvest when the first problem arises and the universe starts revealing it’s true bitch-ass nature. I’ve received ‘real’ (read as material) gifts for my birthday without leaving a ‘this is what you will get me if you want me to continue talking to you’ list, a bouquet of hand-picked wild flowers for absolutely no reason, and more than a few compliments. Hell, I even got an apology after a certain someone realized he was just a tad wrong (funny story that, one I should share if only I had the time).

I’m starting to get into a routine with three kids home all the time. Let’s face it, parenting is 99.9% faking it and .01% luck. Of course, having something with a 90% alcohol content helps at times. Speaking of drugs, I must admit I’ve abandoned you for my old addiction. Yes, bad me. I could take the occasional five minute break to pour my heart out to you, but instead I spend in outside, trying to control the nervous tick I’ve developed since all three kids are home full-time, smoking my old brand of cancer sticks. Boo me. Go ahead, you can say it. I’m weak and pathetic, but at least I’m no longer climbing the walls.

There are so many things I wanted to tell you, odd things, happy things, and a few sad things that I can’t seem to get out of my mind. But I haven’t had time. I fall into bed mentally exhausted every night, worn out from all the disciplining, teaching, loving, and trying-to-stay-on-top-of-it-all crap that goes on in life. My kids amaze me every single day and while I am thrilled to be a part of this wonderful space in the universe, I’m not too sure how my sanity is going to survive.

Having said that, I’m going to go sneak outside again before the next bottle, while the monkeys are all sleeping, and neglect you for five more minutes—just call it a sanity break.

Love ya,

Doc