Near miss with catatonia

If the snow had not begun to melt and the sun hadn’t decided to shine and the kids weren’t returning to school tomorrow, I dare say that Tom would come home from work tomorrow night and find me in the basement doing a puzzle, catatonic from craze. Drool would be seeping from one corner of my mouth, a wine glass with a straw long enough to reach my lips would be on the table just to my right, and my left hand would be obsessively rubbing nutmeg’s head, a cat lady gone way-crazy wrong.

Fortunately the sun is melting, the sun is shining and the kids are going to school tomorrow.

We have already been to swimming lessons, Party City for decorative shamrocks and other 6th-birthday needs, and PetSmart for a new Sunburst Wag Platy fish to replace the one who is with us no more. Like all SeaWorld orcas are named Shamu (I curse you and your lies and ill-treatment of those orcas, SeaWorld), our Sunburst Wags are all known as Lightning Strike.

As you might recall, our previous Lightning Strike was struck with Dropsy, put into fish hospice and tended to by Tom, seemed to be on the up and up once back home in the tank and then perished suddenly, just after our new black Molly (the first was named Black Swimmer, this new guy is Darth Fishious; I don’t know why they are treated differently in the name department than are the Sunburst Wags) moved in. We found Lightning Strike stuck to the filter’s intake tube: as if he’d given up in mid-swim and just gone with the tide, right smack into the suction.

Because the sun is shining, I am “spring” cleaning like a lunatic and, once home from this morning’s marathon, even scrubbed the fish tank until its glass walls gleamed. We bought a new plant for our marine friends and things in there are sparkling. Hopefully Darth Fishious and Lightning Strike 2 will be with us for a while. Creamsicle (the orange guppy) and the two neon tetras are strong as steel. I admire them.

The kids are, shockingly, more in love with each other than ever despite having been housebound together for four days. As such, T and I really felt like assholes when, about two hours ago, we looked at each other with wild eyes, realizing across thought waves that neither of us could even stand the boys’ tinkling laughter anymore. We have all had too much togetherness.

I sent T to the gym, escaped to my US Presidents puzzle in the basement and threw the iPad at the kids. If they’d asked to streak the neighborhood, I’d have agreed because they’d have left the house and that equals quiet.

The merciful Saint of Babysitting answered my 911 call to all sitters I know. She who should now be canonized, Alex, arrived twenty minutes ago and whisked my children to the playground. As they left, I thrust a credit card in her hand and begged her to “run their faces off and then take them to dinner.” She agreed, and I am grateful.

She came just in time because I’d started throwing away or vacuuming everything in my path because CONTROL. I am now in my home by myself feeling something remarkable. I think it’s called bliss.