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Tonight I sit alone with a decent enough bottle of Cab Sav, the wine of my marriage, all on my lonesome getting more than tipsy and wondering, as one does when one is alone, what it is I actually want to do with this brief spell I have on this side of living. It's a terrifying thought, but not more terrifying than mortality, which I can't really think about without being made sad or being left at a complete loss, although I do find it comforting that we're made of stars and I suppose when we're done with this we'll make other compounds or bodies and be involved with some kind of galactic spectacle. Why is there so much to do, so much I could possibly do, and so little time?

My baby Cerilene turns one this month, a too-quick promotion into toddler-dom - oh shit my baby's turning into a person. I think of this and I think yes, that is a life well-lived, making funny faces and sounds to a small maniacal bundle of incessant joy, and more bundles at a pace we can manage, please. And then there are things I want to do with this week, this month, this year, and the next and the next, that will become so difficult to manage with more babies than now that I can't honestly imagine my life at that point and plan for the shape I would like it to take. I have to believe that everything can be solved with organizational solutions, and plans that we plan for underneath other plans, but I do realize this is as fictitious as the notion of a life well-lived or that things will work themselves out in the end, or that we all find love and everything we need when we need it.