It’s gone. After two months of near-daily blogging, I’m damn near out.

We rung in the new year quietly, sucking up as much quiet, non-parenting time as we could. We rotted our brain with about 289 hours of “House” reruns (even smart television makes me feel like my brains are oozing). I finished two knitting projects (a hat for me, a snood for a greyhound). We grew barnacles. It was grand.

This morning, I could’t wake up when it was time to pick up Clara Jane. It seems a cork had developed inside my nostrils, preventing oxygen from entering my body, which tends to make one really, really tired. I popped some Sudafed, and off we went to Columbia to fetch our kid after a week.

It’s finally happened. My mom has made a rule that Claar Jane can only stay with her no more than five days in a row. Priviledge has been officially abused.

Anyway, we had lunch at a busy restaurant, followed by a trip to the insanely busy mall for carousel rides. I skipped the vomit-go-round and hit Target for more Sudafed. Holy Hell. Every human being alive in the whole world was at the Columbia Target. I really don’t like people that much. By the time we left, between the people and the decongestion drugs, I could feel the anxiety reaching a pitch I don’t like it to reach. All the way home, I sat in the passenger seat, grinding my teeth, knitting a pair of cabled fingerless gloves while holding my needles nearly tight enough to snap them.

When we got home, I planned Clara Jane’s birthday party in an hour. It’s six weeks from now. We have a guest list, menu, list of favors, games, everything. In an hour. I think I have officially gone manic.

My teeth hurt and I can feel my eyelashes. And yet, when I’ve thought about writing anything today, I find myself staring at the wall, hypnotic and … what was I saying?