There are reasons why a woman rearranges her living room. And dining room.

Reasons why she, by herself, picks up and moves two different area rugs, one large table, 8 chairs, two sofas, one side table and two ottomans. And a rocking chair.

And all this on a whim in the evening when her husband is gone working and her kids haven’t been bathed. And the dishes are still undone in the sink and the trash is almost overflowing. The clothes are unfolded and the playroom door is closed because she can’t bear to look at the disaster.

She asks her girls to open the blinds more so she can see where to push the chairs.

Her toddler is climbing the vacuum cleaner. Her six-year-old finds a pile of leftover jelly beans petrified from Easter underneath one of the pieces of furniture.

There are reasons why she does this. Maybe they are the same reasons she might cut her hair or reorganize her pantry. They are small changes, within her control, but offer enough difference to make her feel newer. She can’t paint her bedroom tonight, or write a book. And even though she’s 33, she feels old.

But she pushes her heavy table toward the window and moves the love seat so it is on an angle. She moves the sofa side table so that it can be seen from the front door. She puts the old lamp on the little table in its new spot.

And there are still toys everywhere and a toddler potty-seat in the corner. And the pantries are still a mess. But there is something newer about her home tonight when she’s done. And about her.

I don’t usually flake on people.

Not usually. If there is something I can’t do, I usually don’t agree to it. Which means I say “no” a lot. But when I say “yes”, most of the time I follow-through.

But I flaked on my running friend this morning. After a night of soothing the nightmares of one little girl and sharing my bed with both little girls at different times throughout the night, I couldn’t get up at 4:55 a.m. (in order to meet her by 5:15). I just couldn’t do it.

My phone was by my bed, so I did the only thing I knew how to do at that evil time of the morning.

I texted:

Dont hate me. Had a really bad night. Ill call you later in the day. Im sorry.

She texted me back like a good friend would (15 minutes later, after she had already gotten HERself out of bed and put HER clothes on, and was waiting on HER front porch for me.):

No worries. Of course I dont hate you. Well talk later. Im sorry you had a bad night.

So I slept in a little. And it was what I needed. I opened my eyes at about 7 when the summer sun was already bright in my bedroom window. Everyone else in the house was still asleep in different positions throughout the upstairs.

My oldest daughter was sprawled across her bed after the tossing and turning of her dreams. Her father had re-deposited her there at about 2:30 a.m. after she’d slept briefly in our bed in a post-dream worry.

My littlest one was still between us in our bed, snoring her tiny toddler snore that comes from the deepness of rest. My husband was sleeping, despite the brightness of our room, back turned toward both of us.

For a second, I felt the sinking feeling like I’d done something stupid or lost something. Ohhh. I didn’t run. I had almost forgotten my pre-five in the morning texting session and the run I’d missed out on. I regretted it for half a minute.

Then I heard the morning sounds. A car leaving our neighborhood for an office somewhere. The pigeons that have nested in our chimney. The little snores. My cat crying at the top of the stairs begging to be let into our room. These are the sounds I don’t hear at 5 a.m. when it is dark and still very quiet.

And I still feel bad I flaked on my friend (I did call her with profuse apologies. It turned out that she also needed the running break and used the quiet of her own house to bake cookies for her family early in the morning).

But I don’t feel bad I missed out on the extra two hours of rest and new cuddles with little girls, blurry-eyed and fresh from sleep, still smelling warmly of their beds. I don’t feel so bad that I stayed in bed to be a part of this Monday morning slumber party.

Oh, maybe one more text to my forgiving (non-flaky) friend before she starts her week:

Again stupidly sorry. I owe you frozen yogurt.

40 hours.

Mandy turned me on to a cool website.

Upload your photos, choose a cool song, and then it inserts the transitions and mixes it all up for you. Voila! You have a picture video (kinda like the cheesy ones at weddings).

Goodness knows I love it when someone else does something for me.

Untitled from Sarah Markley on Vimeo.

At the top of the half hour of yesterday’s swim lessons at the city pool, I found my toddler chewing on something.

She was working it back in her molars, like it was a piece of gum or taffy. It was a band aid.

Who knew who it came from? Some nasty infected toe from a summer-take-your-bath-in-the-pool kid, or some sweaty adult during a free swim session earlier in the day? I almost gagged until I realized it was the band aid that we’d placed on her own knee from an outdoor tumble that same morning. No tetanus shots needed, thankfully.

Her knee-skin wasn’t worthy of a band aid. She’s in the middle of her “band aid phase”, when every bump or boo-boo requires the kiss of her mother, father or grandmother, and the proper application of a band aid. Strawberry Shortcake or My Little Ponies, preferably.

I’ve had to stock up on band aids for invisible injuries. Sometimes even hurt feelings need a band aid in her little mind. When she asks for one, I laugh a little inside because it seems so silly, and then find her a little-girl band aid to heal her boo-boo.

I indulge her, maybe even patronize her, because I know that the band aid itself, although it does no real healing for an invisible owie, helps her even so. The real band aid seems to serve as a heart-protector, rather than a covering for a fake bump on her shin.

Mama kisses her. Mama laughs a little. Mama finds her a band aid to make it feel better on the inside. Mama tells her it will be just fine. And then she forgets about her injury.

Sometimes I think I ask God for band aids when I really don’t need them. I ask Him to fix things that really don’t need fixed or change things that are just fine the way they are. But what I am really asking for is the love that comes along with the band aid, the kiss and the feel-better hug.

He scoops me up from my knee-skin tumbles and He helps me know that its really all going to be alright. He indulges my constant asking because He loves me and then He bandages me up. In His good ways.

And God’s band aids don’t fall off in the pool.

In the summer, you’d think Edison would tell you that they are turning off the power for a whole day!

They did, I guess. In a letter. Last month. Which my husband opened and put “near” my computer (which is a laptop, and by nature of being a laptop, moves WITH me). I did not see this letter.

Sometime between when I left for the gym and when I got home, the power company had errected a giant crane (how do you fix electricity with a crane?), had pulled in about 12 trucks and about 25 workers had descended upon our neighborhood. I guess we had a problem.

The power was going to be turned back on again at 5pm. I envisioned a sweaty nap for my toddler, a bored afternoon for my six-year-old (who usually watches a dvd or plays on the computer during her sister’s nap), and an uninteresting day for me. Not only that, without lights and in attempt to keep the upstairs cool, we shut all the blinds. We weren’t able to see much.

However, we did learn a few things:

• With the TV off, kids figure out what to do very quickly. And they are creative.
• Board games are much better than watching Mr. Rogers.
• With the house quiet, I found myself thinking more, and praying more too.
• Although, when it is too quiet, I have to keep a closer eye on the girls. Renewed creativity also led to one of them biting the other to keep her sister away from her things. I will name no names.
• I was forced AWAY from the computer. I read no blogs. I answered no emails. I ended up reading to the girls instead.
• And then, get this, I began a project I had been been putting off for almost 6 weeks. I sat down and just started it (this, incidentally, is when the biting incident occured).

An hour and a half early, at 3:30, the ceiling fan began to spin, the light in the laundry room clicked on and my alarm clock blinked “12:00″. I yelled at the girls that if they wanted to watch a DVD, the power was back on.

Nothing.

I yelled again. Still nothing.

They were too engrossed in the world they had created without electricity in the warm dark afternoon of Hope’s room.

I should ask Edison to shut off the power more. I’ll get more work done, the girls’ creativity will be spurred, and I might even catch a quiet moment to myself.

I’ve written about the crazy sleep-cooking habits of my husband before (scrambled eggs, anyone?), and about the tantruming of my two-year-old.

And there have been studies done about people who get up in the middle of the night and binge on hoagies and ice cream and then go back to bed without a single memory of their midnight meal.

But what do I write when all of these ideas come together so nicely? I don’t.

I show a video.

Sleepeating from Sarah Markley on Vimeo.

On our almost two hour car ride back from the desert yesterday, both girls fell asleep. Exhaustion from a morning trying to squeeze in as much swimming and ping-pong as possible took over and they immediately closed their eyes as soon as the air conditioner kicked in enough to make them comfortable.

Forty-five minutes later, Naomi woke up, unsure of where she was but sure she was unhappy about being in a sweaty carseat.

“GOLDFISH, MAMA!” between whines and whimpers.

Of course, Your Royal Highness. Whatever you need to stay quiet and and not wake up your sister. That and we have about another hour in the car. More brown desert. No windmills to wow you and not many clean places to stop if we need to.

I handed her a cup of Goldfish crackers and she closed her eyes again. She began to eat while she fell back asleep.

I guess she takes after her father. We all know that he doesn’t necessarily eat in his sleep, but he certainly does cook.

I can’t help but think that raising daughters is a series of heartbreaks. Her breaking mine. Me breaking hers.

We are going away for one night. And leaving straight from church.

It would be just as easy packing two girls and my husband with all of their belongings (life vests, swim goggles, legos, toddler bed, crayons and coloring book, shampoo, dvds, books for the car, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a carseat picnic) for one week than it has been packing us for one day. Just one day. We are going with some friends to their place in the desert.

Where
it
is
supposed
to
be
108 degrees.

Wow. That’s okay, we love the high desert July and August. No one is there and the only thing you can do is swim, nap, and watch movies. Even some of the retail stores shut their doors and go elsewhere for the desert summer.

I feel like I’ve done so much work for so little time.

I see this when I am impatient with cereal and milk spilled all over the floor this morning. Or when Naomi’s dirty diaper ends up outside of her dirty diaper when I am loading the car (I’ll spare you the details although it is worthy of a post in itself).

I have to wonder what possibly could be worth this headache?

There is the lazy river at the condo complex. And the time spent with good friends and their baby. It is the 24 hours of time the girls have with their daddy, uninterrupted and free. It is the experience of a new place we are giving the girls, even if it is only for one night.

I think of this as I pick up old french fries from the car, and do the mundane things that make up 90% of my life. I think of this when I feel like I never have the time to do the writing I feel called to do, or when I can’t exercise in the morning because I am cuddling a sleepy two-year-old.

Yes, it is all worth it. Even if it is just for one night.