As I enter the brand-new, wonderful world of online journaling, my greatest challenge seems to be finding the time to write! Tucker is three and a half months old, but he hasn't fully embraced his age yet... at night, he's still waking up every three hours on the clock. I mean, honestly. Does he think he's still a newborn? Clearly, the man is HUNGRY. I understand how he feels... but more on that later. I spend my nights never quite reaching REM, sleepwalking to the nursery every few hours to retrieve him, shuffling out to our cozy new den, wrapping myself in my Boppy, getting Tucker into position, and turning on my latest Netflix for another twenty minutes of entertainment while the baby nurses. When the first light of day streams through the window, I know it's Stan's turn to take over, so I wordlessly hand him the baby, crawl into bed, and if I'm lucky, I get three hours of uninterrupted slumber.

This is where it gets tricky. I can sense it's about 8:30am and I need to get up, feed the baby again and help get Addie off to school. But there's one tiny problem... I can't open my eyes. They are positively glued shut. I try to look at the clock next to the bed but I can't see it because my eyes refuse to open. I think I may be going blind. I throw water on my face, but this does not help my condition. I try to find Stan and bump into a wall. I call his name in desperation, and follow the sound of his voice. He sounds so AWAKE. I tell him I think I may need to go to the hospital, because my eyes no longer work. He calmly tells me to have some coffee. Now, making coffee is difficult when your eyes won't open... but proceed I must, and somehow instinct takes over. Stan is right... I do not need to go to the hospital. A little coffee, and I can see again. Hallelujah. My eyes stay open for most of the day. They will become glued shut again sometime between 5:30 and 8:30am. And so it goes.

My hubby and I start our day dropping Addie off at pre-school, then taking a hike in Runyon Canyon. Or, if I'm feeling particularly wimpy that day (because the coffee didn't work and my eyes are still glued shut), Fryman Canyon. Which is just like Runyon Canyon, without the twenty-minute mountain climb straight uphill.

During my days, I do as much as I possibly can with one hand, since I've got Tucker in the other. I can choreograph, run a rehearsal, load laundry, wash dishes, talk on the phone, operate heavy machinery, bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan... all with one hand. I am especially impressive at the computer. Most of my close friends know I am already the fastest two-finger typer in the West, but now that there's Tucker, I have mastered the art of typing with ONE finger. I've gotten quite good at it, if I do say so myself. Only the shift key poses a bit of a problem; in order to achieve a capital letter or a question mark, I have to twist my upper body into a pretzel and Tucker's left ear will sometimes get squished. He seems to take it in stride.

But my daytime one-fingered typing is mostly devoted to work-related emailing and occasional (OK, not so occasional) visits to Facebook... not journaling. Before we know it, 2:30pm is upon us and it's time to pick Addie up from school. I admit I so look forward to seeing his face light up when I walk into his classroom. He beams, yells "Mama!" and runs into my welcome embrace. I relish his excitement while I have it, because before I know it he will be ten years old and pretending he doesn't know who I am. I either take him home or to his Karate class. His Sensei says has a natural gift for the sport, and I figure all I have to do is buy him a little Banzai tree to trim and some chopsticks for catching flies, and I've got myself the next Karate Kid.

Home we go, to make dinner. Often we find ourselves hosting one of Addie's neighborhood friends, Jack or Samantha. In these parts I'm already famous for my one-handed grilled cheese sandwiches. The kids play outside, we clean up the kitchen, I hand Tucker over to Stan so I can shower. I wash my hair with one hand out of habit. We all get into our pajamas and Addie and I watch The Amazing Race together. I give Tucker his bedtime feeding, lay him down to sleep, help Addie brush his teeth, fill a sippy cup with water for next to his bed. Addie turns saying goodnight into a fifteen-minute dramatic play, but at last he drifts off to sleep and the house is quiet. Stan and I snuggle together to enjoy our nighttime snacks and watch one of our Tivo-ed programs. We are unconscious as the final credits roll.

So I ask you, when can I write? I used to write all the time. I spent most of high school filling journal after journal, pretending I was taking notes in class when really I was busy chronicling my teen angst. I furiously wrote in journals throughout my twenties, working through my relationships with family, friends and [mostly moronic] boyfriends.

Then, something amazing happened. I got happy. I met and married the most amazing man, and then made two precious little humans with his able assistance. I found that I wrote far less once I found happiness. Upset, rage, dis-ease... it drove me to my journal. But joy? No, I'm too busy living it to write about it. Well, I am now determined to reverse that. I want my kids to know how sweet this life is with them and their incredible father. I want to describe all this splendor as vividly as I described how mortified I was to be sixteen. I want to write it all down... to capture it and remember it and bottle it in all its messy, chaotic loveliness.

I just have to find the time.