Maybe Next Month

It’s 5:23am.

Little feet enter the room, blanket in tow. She climbs up next to me and snuggles in. I’m physically exhausted but mentally unsettled, and I know she is too.

Keith is already at his desk, editing photographs from the day before. It’s somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 kids.

Select. Crop. Next. Select. Crop. Next. Select. Crop …

We’ve reached that point in the year when it feels like our schedule and calendar will simply swallow us alive. This isn’t something new, it’s a tale as old as time, so to speak. In our world anyway. 

It’s 6:00am.

She’s not going to let me rest any longer. She drags her blanket to the couch and promptly finds an episode of Sophia the First, while I drag myself to the coffee maker. Moxie follows, finds her next sleeping spot on the couch, and slips back into peaceful slumber.

Keith is still at his desk, carefully analyzing each image. There is no letting up on production at this point, for the snowball effect that follows over the next few weeks.

We’ve played this game year after year after year. It’s what August looks like around here.

There’s a familiar comfort in the complete and total chaos of schedule that is about to ensue. And at the same time, there’s something that we’re all losing sleep over. Like kids on Christmas Eve night.

It’s 7am.

And I’m dreaming about a nap.

Maybe next month …