Perhaps it was a bit ambitious, or dumb, to declare I’ll publish my book the same year my husband opens a second restaurant. But then again, maybe publishing a book is like having a baby. There’s never a perfect time to do it.
I figured out several weeks ago, that if I wanted to avoid freaking out in Fall as the end of the year nears, I should edit one chapter every week. If I were successful, I’d be done with the current revision in June which would allow time for everything that comes next.
Well, I didn’t complete a chapter that week. And the chapter wasn’t finished after the next week passed either.
But instead of boring you with all the reasons why, I’ll share the start of the current chapter I’m working on:
We pulled off the big dinner, but that’s all we did. Pulled it off. It wasn’t until the seven sailboats were in the bay and motoring by dinghy from boat to boat, whooping and laughing, and splashing into the water, that we learned our 36-top were all men on a Boys-Only sailing vacation with one goal in mind: partying.
As the afternoon progressed, two more yachts sailed into the bay, and we had a total of nine. Another couldn’t have fit if it tried. By the time the party boys motored to shore at 7:00, they were a stumbling, slurring mess.
“Come down once the kids are asleep,” Brian had said earlier. “We’ll for sure need your help writing tickets.”
Remy and Simon hadn’t once woken up in the night since that first one when the sudden rain storm scared us half to death. They were so physically active they couldn’t help but sleep soundly. Simon still should have been napping but he quit cold turkey the day we arrived. But sometimes, if we happened to be riding in the dinghy in the afternoon, the motion of the sea and the hum of the engine lulled him to sleep and he’d slump against me.
When I was sure they were asleep, I changed into linen pants to protect my ankles from no-see-ums, a sleeveless top and my orange suede sandals. I grabbed the baby monitor and a flashlight and scrambled down the hill.
At the bottom, my feet and sandals were covered in dust. I craned my neck back and looked up at the Treehouse, the underside of it’s broad roof aglow against the dark night sky.
I can be back in a minute if they wake up, I told myself.
Just to make sure, I lit my watch and waited for the second hand to come to twelve and scrambled back up as fast as I could, steadying myself with my hands, and reached the top in less than two minutes.
“That’s pretty good,” I said.
I caught my breath while I made my way back down and decided the sprint actually almost felt good.
This hill, the quick way up, was so steep I could only carry Simon on my hip rather than my shoulders allowing only one free hand to carry stuff. I realized I hadn’t ever climbed the hill without a kid on my hip, or a box of groceries, or a five gallon jug of gasoline. Maybe I’d like to volunteer to make runs up and down to deliver or retrieve light items, if I didn’t have to take a child with me.
I gloated in my new physical prowess, and pulled up my pants. All my shorts had grown loose, and Brian’s had too. Soon, Mom and Dad would arrive for Christmas. I’d ask Mom to put darts in our shorts, just like she did when I was seven.
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