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How Writer’s Block Turns Into 920 Words

I’m kinda at a loss for words.

Shocking, I know.

It’s more of a simple lack of inspiration. Or writer’s block. Or just a boring life.

Not that there hasn’t been a lot going on around here. Let’s see…

*finally signed a contract with Builder #2 (heretofore known as “Superman”)

*Meghan has had back pain for the last month and got an all-too-familiar diagnosis this morning

*Michael’s dad broke his hip and has to have his pacemaker replaced next week, therefore

*I have to figure out a way to get three kids to two back-to-back soccer games an hour away by myself and then back to church and then fed and bathed and kissed
good-night while simultaneously not pulling out every last strand of my ever-graying hair

Still, I got nuthin’. Nada. Zip.

I’d really like to write something to make you laugh (at the least) or inspire you (at the most). But,

(See? The Writer is Blocked.)

(scratching my nose)

(changing out the laundry)

(tapping my fingers on the keyboard)

(darn this laptop! The mousepad has a mind of its own.)

(bored yet?)

So the house. (Better get comfortable. I just realized I haven’t told you the whole story.) We found out a week before our closing that the builder has basically dissolved. (His company, that is. He himself didn’t actually dissolve, though I could make a few fair comparisons with the Wicked Witch of the West.) In the meantime, Wicked Builder #1 never returned any of our many phone calls or emails. In fact, we didn’t actually speak with him for an entire week after we told him he was fired. I was feeling better and better about this decision by the minute.

As a sidenote here, Gretchen pointed out to me that all of the delays we faced last spring and summer with the city and trying to get financing could very well be God’s great way of protecting us from having a half-built house and no builder – which is much, much worse than just not having a builder. Yes, I think I can safely say that I am thankful for all the delays – as frustrating as they have been – because they did keep us from starting our house with a builder who was sinking fast.

We called another builder we had interviewed a year & a half ago (did I mention HOW STINKIN’ LONG this whole process is taking?!?). We really, really like him. A lot. Michael emailed him at 10:00 on Thursday night to see if he was still interested in building our house. Michael’s phone rang at 7:45 Friday morning (I’m still cracking up over that one – he even told Michael that he waited a few minutes because he didn’t want to call too early!), and we met with him that afternoon. On Monday, Superman then met with the incredibly amazing interior designer that we had been working with– she still has all of our information and all the bids that resulted from several hours-long meetings we had with her over the last year – then he took that information and got a bid to us that Friday. As a very exciting bonus, he agreed to hire our interior designer as a consultant, so we can still work with her and all of her incredible amazingness.

Superman! You know: swooping in to save the day? And our butts? And our dream house?

His bid was a little high, we discussed it with him, he lowered his bid, Michael picked up the contract this afternoon. Now we have to sign the contract, get it back to him, and then wait for the appraisal.

That’s all I’m thinking about right now. I’ve decided that I can only handle The Next Decision. I can’t think about the closing date or the start date or even deciding on a front door. I just need to sign the contract. That’s all. For now.

I think this is the theme of this long-winded blog post. One Decision At A Time.

(It only took 673 words to reach a theme.)

(Are you getting tired of all the parenthesis?)

One Decision At A Time. Anything more is going to lead to loss of hair.

So Meghan. She’s had back pain for about a month, which – oddly enough – happened to me at almost the exact age. My (mis)diagnosis was Scheuermann’s Disease, but I think it was really something more along the lines of Juvenile Discogenic Disorder. And – surprise, surprise – that is precisely what Meghan has. My orthopedist told me to sit out of P.E. for a year (which broke my heart, not because I loved P.E. but because I was so afraid of being weird and what people would think), which – oddly enough – is precisely the wrong thing to do. Meghan was given a prescription for 6 weeks of physical therapy to strengthen her core and back muscles, and hopefully that will relieve some of her pain.

If that doesn’t work, then she’ll have a bone scan, and the doctor will try to figure out what is going on (could be some sort of stress fracture), and she could wear a brace for a while. But right now, I’m thinking about her first physical therapy appointment next Monday afternoon.

One Decision At A Time.

That’s all.

And right now, I have seven baskets of laundry to fold. That’s what I need to do tonight.

That – and sign and initial 27 pieces of paper.

And watch Glee.

I can handle that.

Hair intact.


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