Suburbs of Our Discontent

I'm happy to report that, after a weekend away from my kids and two uninterrupted nights of sleep, I can not only find my post-it notes, I can understand them. I had forgotten what it's like to wake up and not feel crushing pain behind my eyes. Who knew that coffee could be just a little something extra to your morning and not a medical necessity?

By the time I left the house Friday evening, I was running on fumes. I had forgotten the word for "coffee-table" and had asked the babysitter twice where my cell phone was (answer both times: "In your pants.") My mind--like our crappy fence that had blown down the night before--was showing unmistakable signs of rot.

There's a reason things don't go well for Shakespeare's characters when they don't get a good night's sleep. They see ghosts, they think they can single-handedly kick ass against an army of trees, they lose their horses. And their heads.

I think I saved mine in the nick of time. But the fence is a goner.