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After a long, long pregnancy and labor, finally, Jonathon and I are thrilled to announce it’s a bouncing baby book. Weight: eight pounds. We put the little sucker in Fed-Ex. It’s off to New York, and I don’t think we will be seeing it again until it is ready to go on the shelves sometime close to April.
We worked until three A. M. one night. Next night I called it at midnight because anytime I stopped pacing, I swayed in place. Between nine and ten o’clock for last night. We’d so hoped to be done before we went to bed, but we left the last go through for today. I honestly don’t know what we would have done if Jon’s parents, Art and Mary, hadn’t been able to take Trin for Friday night. In fact, she’s spending tonight with them, too, because Jon and I are just done. Not stick a fork in me, honey, done, but burnt to a crisp, the roast has been in the oven for hours, and is now a little black brick done. I’m so tired I’m crying at odd moments, for no reason. Jon’s doing his pacing through the house thing. He’s too tired to do anything, or to think, but once you get him going this hard, he has trouble letting go of the push of it. The book goes out the door and I’m ready to hibernate; Jon has to do a restless marathon before he can finally collapse. What does Jon do to help with the rewrite? He writes notes to save my hand. He types up my long hand notes, again to save my injured arm. But, he also checks me when I’m too tired to know if I’m right, or wrong, about a note the editor made. He helps me test my understanding again and again. Especially when I’m too tired, or too close to the book, or both.
Darla was out most of this week, so Jon really took the brunt of this rewrite. The fact that we haven’t found a reason to argue, or have a fight this week is either a testament to how much we love eachother, divine intervention, or both.
I’m going to fetch my husband, and we’re going to bed.