The windows in the downstairs of my lovely little house are rather drafty. What I would find somewhat quaint or comically situational in a book is a daily nuisance to me. I don't mind being cold. If you don't already know this about me, you should know that my body temperature is about 45 degrees higher than it should be. I'm generally warm, hot, stifling, or barely comfortable. Exceptions to this fact are generally found when I am met by a blustery wind while walking beside a body of water (very, very rarely and even then usually tolerated because I am happy to be doing something quaint and romantically situational). The drafty downstairs doesn't bother me. I like being able to don a sweatshirt and have another hot cuppa. However, circumstances being what they are...
I have three young children. The eldest child is always cold. The middle child wouldn't tell me how she felt unless bribed with candy. The youngest is a 7 pound space heater, but being only 7 pounds she has to be wrapped in layers and layers of blankets as she is prone to lose all her body heat in a matter of minutes. The drafty downstairs is now a problem. Sure, I could replace the windows to a happy tune of I don't remember how much because it was such a high sum, but where's the fun in that? The sense of adventure in life is lost if all our problems are solved because we can remember to call the Window Man to fix the drafty downstairs.
Tonight I'm writing without aim. I don't often do that, as it feels like I'm 16 again, writing in my journal. Sentimental as that picture may be, I really don't know you well enough to be telling you all my 27 year old fears, and certainly not my dreams. But I needed you tonight, oh reader (how many of you are there? 3? 7?) because the drafty downstairs feels foreign.
I took a lovely hot bath with a lovely peppermint candle and a lovely small glass of Bailey's. I have stolen away to the drafty downstairs to quickly write something, something, anything that will make me feel like today wasn't lost to diaper rash cream and the Christmas stockings that stress me out because they are still hung by the chimney with care.
You are wonderful and kind and will no doubt be tilting your head to the side and having a small chuckle and thinking that poor Beatrice is having her I-just-had-a-baby-insanity that comes with the first three months (years) of having another child. I know, I know. Things get better and I need to not write down every sad thought that flits through my head until I can get through one whole day without crying and wondering when in the name of all that is right will I get to go to college for longer than one blasted semester. And I'm not! I'm not....I promise. But if you notice, I haven't written since November. I didn't want you to think that I was getting on so famously with life in general that I didn't have time to sarcastically inform you that yes I did spend the holidays with family and yes I did have to steal away to the pantry and yes I did, I sure enough did lock myself inside it until the family members went away (at least in my mind).
I'm very, very tired here in the drafty downstairs. The Christmas tree is looking at me, asking when I'll feel like retiring its ornament laden branches to the garage. One year my family left it up until almost Valentine's Day. Putting the tree away is like packing after a really good trip. It is sad, and you know it needs to happen. But you also learn how to skirt the suitcase/tree in the middle of the night while you are stumbling around looking for the baby's favorite pacifier because the kid can actually tell one from the other, much to your chagrin.
We have a space heater, purchased our first month of living in this house because the kids were complaining that they couldn't feel their feet. I thought that it was because they had small, insignificant little feet but it might also have been because they were cold. The heater isn't like the one in your grandmother's bathroom that will roast an errant foot or nosy pet. It is all plastic and shuts off at a certain temperature so you don't have to watch your kids at all times lest they go through life with grillmarks on their cheek (thank you, modern appliance makers for helping me be a better parent). But the space heater plug is Way Over There behind a large bucket of baby clothes, a booster seat, an Elmo car, a stack of Latin books that reaches to my knee, a rogue ipod charger/cd thing that I bought Austin a few years ago that needs to be thrown away but manages to hide itself when it feels in danger of losing its post of Worthless Electronic Device.
So instead, I'm just enjoying a cool breeze as I sit here on my couch. The wall hanging behind me is actually fluttering as the arctic blast of icy air forces its way through my poorly installed windows, and I...well, I'm so tired that I'm writing about the drafty downstairs.
I daresay its time to go to bed now. I'll just turn off the computer, switch off the lights, and slowly make my way to the normal temperature of my bedroom upstairs. But don't worry, I'll be just fine. I know how to skirt the tree, the Elmo car, and the stack of Latin books. I'll sleep very well knowing that today was more than just diaper rash cream. It was also about the drafty downstairs. Tomorrow may be more exciting yet.
And if not...well...look for my next exciting work, The Stack of Latin Books.