I have this constant problem of feeling isolated and alone at night, but on the rare occasions when my other half is here, I don't feel like talking. I think this swing shift schedule we're on is just not healthy, but I don't see anything changing; we've lived something like this for a long time.

I'm so tired of being tired.

The depression is creeping back again, even though Stephen Colbert is harrasing Eleanor Holmes on Comedy Central right now. (She's giving as good as she gets, btw.) I some good news! Anyone? Bueller?

I got the nod today. You know, the nod? I rolled to a stop on Sheridan Road, looked at the car to my left stopped in the opposite direction, and the guy driving gave me that "hey, you" nod. I actually did a double-take, and then started blushing, which luckily I'm sure nobody saw. There I was, in my mom-van with my bad hairstyle, and I got the nod. That was pretty freakin' cool.

Once I'd pulled away from the guy, I did a quick check in the mirror. In a glimpse, I saw the sunglasses (clip-ons!) and lip gloss (cheap Maybelline or something). I think I'd put some concealer on that blemish on my chin earlier but couldn't tell with my sunglasses on if it was still covered. On the whole, I didn't look like a complete train wreck. But I'd certainly made no effort.

I know what you're thinking -- how desperate for affirmation is this chick, anyway? Well, kinda. No, actually, I'm not -- when you're with someone for as long as I've been with DH (well, hey -- 11 years seems like a long time), you sort of take for granted that at least one person in the world thinks you're relatively attractive, or at least that you appear inoffensive. It's much less important to seek the approval of potential partners once you're shackled to your own.

I do think DH would be happier if I grew my hair long again, and I doubt he'll complain when I've lost more weight. But I don't think I've ever heard him call me a fugly witch, so hopefully he still puts up with me. (I'm sure my feminist friends are raging at me right now, but understand something -- my husband is one of those freakish people who just gets better looking as he ages. It's infuriating. When I met him, he was skinny and had giant circles under his eyes. Over the years, his hair has remained thick, his skin unwrinkled, and his body gets better and better. I have to make sure that he doesn't suddenly become George Clooney and dump me for a shinier model.)

Right now, I'm getting over yet another mystery illness (I thought it was strep, but the doc says just a throat infection) so I'm setting the bar at basic hygiene. That's just going to have to do.

DH took Jake and Danny to the playground to burn off some of their energy before we did something requiring DCFS intervention. This winter has gone on far too long. Danny is especially difficult since he only got to go to preschool once this week; he came down with a really ugly version of Fifth Disease and we couldn't send him to school until the rash was gone. And of course, right when that happened, he and the baby both came down with colds, so now not only is our apartment messy, but there are probably snot trails everywhere.

And now I have a nasty sore throat, which is a bad sign for the Queen of Strep.

And ohmigosh I'm so freaking tired. I told DH the other day that for someone so freaked out by even the commercials for horror movies, I have the most twisted subconscious ever. My nightmares have nightmares, and they involve serial killers who save baskets of ears and fingers, and creepy apartments underground with sloping cement walls and no windows. I even fall into nightmares when I just drift off on the bus; the other day, I kept jerking myself awake in panic and I'm sure people on the bus thought I was a total nutcase.

Which, of course, means they were pretty much on target.

I'm stressed and exhausted and burnt out and guilty in general about not handling things very well, but really life could always be worse. The sun is shining and the snow this morning (yes! snow! enough already, Chicago!) didn't stick around. And it's almost quiet here, since DH took the boys down the street; I just hear the neighbor's stereo playing 50s doo-wop really loudly, punctuated by my upstairs neighbors' screaming at each other and doing what sounds like a complicated routine involving tap shoes, a basketball and a hi-hat.

Ahh, blessed quiet.

 DH sent this photo to me on my phone while I was out with the two eldest boys.

Two days in a row now, there have been messages over the loudspeaker at the hospital where I now work. Two days in a row, there was a code (emergency) and they announced the wrong location first. That's a little disconcerting. Yesterday, someone coded blue (heart stopped), and they announced it was at one location... then a minute later, "Code correction: Code blue at XYZ."

You could hear everyone around my office half-laughing, and half-hoping to heck that the patient was okay when they finally figured out where he or she was.

Then today, I'm in my office trying to avoid an adjunct faculty member who requires a ridiculous amount of hand-holding, and I hear "Code Red, 7th Floor." And all the doors on the floor slammed shut. Which is not that odd, because if there's a fire alarm anywhere in the building, all of the doors slam shut. What was odd was when, a minute or two later, we heard "Code correction: Code red, SEVENTEENTH floor."

It took another minute for my layperson's brain to convert that into "Hey! There's a fire on this floor!" We cleared out all the students and sought help to move the patients we had, most of whom were in wheelchairs at the time. Luckily, the fire was incredibly small and contained super-fast, so we didn't have to get the fancy lift to get the patients off the floor. Everything was back to normal within 30 minutes.

One of my students said "JT, you're in total Mom mode..." and I guess she was right. All I did was grab my phone, lock my office, and then move about making sure all my ducks were in a row (ideally, down the stairs onto a floor with no fire). It wasn't until later that I got very minorly freaked; thinking how next time something like this happens, maybe I'll let one of the tenured faculty handle moving people -- I've got three kids at home.

Which reminds me. I got really choked up tonight, rocking Benjamin. He fell asleep in my arms -- usually I put him down before that, but he was so cozy -- and I just had a moment of panic. These moments are so fleeting, so sweet. I have so little peace right now. I feel like I'm on an amusement park ride and my seat belt isn't quite holding me down in the seat; I've got a white-knuckle grip on the grimy handle of the thing.

I finally carried the baby off to his crib, and was able to kiss his soft cheek, and whisper "slow down, baby."