Sunday

7:00 am Cory has to leave for meetings. He kisses me good-bye. I mumble a groggy response.
I sleep.
9:16 am The kids are jumping on the bed making requests for a hot breakfast. There is flour and milk and eggs and blueberries and whip cream. They beg for pancakes.
I cook.
10:04 am A roomful of teenage girls at critical stages in their young and impressionable lives will be waiting to hear from me in three hours. My efforts to wrap it up on Saturday were fruitless. I get out my lesson, my scriptures, and rack my brain for an object lesson.
I prepare.
12:43 pm I am fifteen minutes late for choir practice. I jump in the car and drive.
I sing.
3:00 pm I am staring at my roomful of beautiful, amazing girls. I never did get a firm grasp on this lesson, but they are forgiving, inquisitive, and quick to participate.
I teach.
4:15 pm I've been asked to participate in a quartet to perform in church in two weeks. We needed to practice. We met after church.
I sing.
Again.
4:16 pm The soprano in this group has a voice I imagine will be what I hear when I pass from this life and ascend to the heavens. I have a voice that is best reserved for large groups where perfect pitch is optional. Why, exactly, would we be singing in the same company?
I question.
7:32 pm Samantha's throat hurts. This crud has been plaguing her for almost two weeks. I grab the Dimetapp.
I medicate.
7:46 pm I have sent Samantha to bed, Drew wants to talk. And by "talk" I mean he sits next to me on my bed and shows me how he can make himself burp. Really loud. And then brags about his friend Braden who can burp "all the way to 'J' without stopping."
I listen.
9:06 pm I am not tired. The Oscars are on, as well as Ace of Cakes. Helen Mirren's red dress is positively stunning, and Duff is hiding from the 600 girl scouts begging for his autograph where he has delivered a Girl Scout cake. In my next life, I want Duff to be the boyfriend of my college roommate so that our social circles will overlap.
I watch.
11:42 pm I have been tossing in bed for over an hour. I can hear rain on the rooftop; I pull the covers tighter. It is no use. There is school in the morning and cabinets to finish painting and a treadmill to torture me, and I need my sleep. But it isn't coming.
So I blog.