the both.

It is surreal to wake up in Texas and to go to sleep in South Carolina on the same day.

I want to talk about a day of travel with five kids.

But I also kind of want to sleep.

And I want to complain too for some reason.

I’m feeling a little weird like that tonight.

Maybe it’s the travel.

Or the whiplash from Texas to South Carolina with an Atlanta stop in between for our plane to land.

I’m pretty sure Night Writing under such emotional conditions is a dangerous sport for me to undertake. 

Looks like I’m doing it anyway.

I know there is so much good – such as well-behaved, actually enjoyable, kids to travel state to state with.  (They loved the train in the airport almost as much as the flight itself.  It is both amusing and joy-giving and also sadness-making to watch the expressions of strangers as they observe my children enjoy life.  We get faces of surprise and faces of laughter and expressions of shared joy at the wonder on my children’s faces and then almost terror at seeing five young kids all together as if they might form some mini-gang and spontaneously overthrow that person.)

There was the good of seeing our buddy Nate pick us up at the airport with a grin and a capable hand – ready to carry an Otto with tired legs and a heavy backpack and willing to navigate us through airport traffic and congested roads.

There is the good of sleeping in one’s own bed.

Of course the good of having spent time with sweet and lovely and beautiful Emma.  (But also the sad of having to leave Texas and such gentle and regular, comfortable friendship.)

The good of coming home to a clean kitchen and a tidy house thanks in part to the wonderful house sitter/animal caregiver Katie and in part to my generous Riley (who also left lights on for us).

And I think a wiser person than I am would stop with just listing all the good.

But a creepy flying insect just attacked my hair and I flicked it across the room and I just think I’m going to list the frustrating too.

The stack of bills and disappointing mail on the kitchen table.

Coming home to an empty house.

Misplacing my phone.

The exhausting labor of being a Lone Adult in charge of so many life decisions.

Not being able to sleep but knowing how much I will regret staying up so late when tomorrow requires my full attention.

Disconcerting news in several arenas in that mail stack and in life in general.

Wondering how I’ll answer tomorrow morning’s question of “What’s for breakfast?” when we haven’t been home for over a week.

Not having welcoming arms at a journey’s end.  (There’s just so much to miss in this season of my life.)

You know, I think I’ve listed enough.

I’m a little sick of myself.

Piper Finn runs around our house often singing a song from Annie.

She sings, “It’s a hard knock life, for me.”

And she sings it while grinning and skipping and playing with her siblings.

I think my life is kind of like that right now.

It’s a hard knock life, for me.  But there’s singing and grinning and dancing and playing too.