I'm leaving for Kansas City on Thursday. Rachel (Sophia's godmother and one of my sisters-of-a-different-mother) and I are going to Clyde Friday afternoon to visit the monastery there, where I'm an oblate. Mike is staying right here, with both girls.
A large part of my brain is already there. And the rest of my brain is panicking like a little kid caught drawing on the wall. I get to ride the train there (for $25 each way), I get to spend the weekend with Rachel, with the sisters, with the place. I will knit on the train and not have to take anyone to the bathroom or feed anyone snacks and be alone just as a grown up with no attachments. I will sleep and pray and eat and talk about important things with people I respect and care for.
This is a gift I give myself. I have to keep reminding myself of this every time I think "I can't go to Clyde this February..." It is not an obligation. It is something just for me. Now, I probably can't go to Clyde THIS February, since baby's arrival will be around the 16th of January or so and I won't even be staggering down the stairs the first weekend of February. But I can go in May. Really, I can. With Edward Something in tow.
Which is part of why I'm so very much looking forward to this trip.
But the panicking? It's legitimate. Atrium calls to me; I have meetings and things I have to plan (trees, dog care while we're gone in Tennessee) and girl scouts and packing and housework and just 3 short days to get it all done in.
And I'm awake. It's after 12:30 in the morning and I'm still up. Daft. But it's because I'm actually already asleep in St. Joseph's House with the window open and the alarm set for Dark (like 4:45 a.m. dark).