I can hear Harper crying in her crib. She’s angry. She doesn’t want to go to sleep. She doesn’t want to be held. She wants to explore. But I’m tired and sad, and the day is over and I need her to give me this space. So she will stay in her crib and she will be angry.

There is no time to be sad and so the tears pounce when they can. The trail of sadness continues at the Morley house with yet another loss — a coworker of mine.  A fellow educator who was tragically killed in a car accident on the first day of school.  None of it makes sense.

When somebody you love dies at an “advanced” age you are sad, but you are also grateful that they lived such a long life and had the opportunity to either fulfill or come to peace with their dreams.  If someone dies from an illness, regardless of age, you are sad, but illness and death go hand in hand and seem a natural and expected way to leave this life. But when somebody has their life stolen from them – when their dreams are ripped away by another person, either by purpose or accident, there is no sense in it.  There is no way to make those pieces of information fit together in your head.  No matter how hard I try I can’t.

Keye’s killer was arrested.  A crack head with a history of robberies and thieving.  He will be brought to trial and I have confidence he will see justice. We cheered that an arrest had been made but it is a hollow victory because the one thing we all want we can’t ever have.  This man, this thief of life, can’t give us Keye back.

I miss them all.

The irony about being a person who writes, studies writing and loves good writers is that you learn that the best writing comes from the strongest emotion and the strongest emotion is pain – not love.  We, as humans, feel more alive when we hurt than when we are happy.  We are more aware of our delicate human nature, of the value of the things around us, when we are in pain.

I drove to work this morning in an epic downpour. As I slowly made my way down the expressway with 18-wheelers and teenagers and guys on their cell phones I thought of how quickly something could go wrong and I could be dead.  But nothing went wrong, and I’m not dead.  Instead, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, listening to the fire crackle and shedding tears for those who weren’t quite so lucky.

How was your holiday season? Filled with presents and family? Really? Yeah, I hate you.  My holiday was overshadowed by death.  The ultimate party pooper. I’ve avoided writing this post because I know, in the end, I will be an emotional wreck and wishing you all could just read my mind (which would make blogging so much easier).

My Uncle Marty died.

He wasn’t really my uncle, but since I wouldn’t know my actual uncle if he came up to me on the street and offered me free chocolate or a cruise to the Caribbean, Marty was it. My mother and Marty had grown up together – gone to the same high school.  He married my mother’s best friend; Sandy.   My Uncle Marty and Aunt Sandy had two children, Sue and Rich. Rich was my age and I can’t really remember a time in my life when Marty, Sandy, Rich and Sue weren’t a part of it.  They have always been my only relations on my mother’s side.

Marty was a man who was larger than life.  People say that, I know, it’s cliche. However, in Marty’s case it was true.  He was loud and passionate and angry.  He didn’t just say “hi” in a calm, gentle fashion, but would grab you, hug you, kiss you and embrace you with the feeling that this was the first and last time he would ever see you.  He gave generously and hurt deeply.  He would tease you, chide you and poke at you, but always with a smile and a twinkle that told you that he loved you.

Marty was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer about a year ago.  It sucked. He’s gone now, and it isn’t fair.

But life isn’t fair and this was made abundantly clear to David and I when on Christmas Eve we received the news that our dear friend, Keye Ratley, was shot and killed.  He was 35.

Keye, his girlfriend, his brother and his girlfriend, were all leaving a night club together, when Keye’s baby brother got jumped by two muggers.  Keye ran in to pull the men off of his  brother when the muggers turned around and shot Keye in the abdomen.

Keye had a quiet confidence about himself.  A gentle demeanor that belied his wicked sense of humor and creative spirit.  He was a friend to all and an enemy to none.  He was a slave to technology with an absolute obsession with FourSquare and Facebook that left every person feeling like they were a part of his life. He was also a man who knew how to wear a handlebar mustache. David spent three years sitting right next to Keye at work, eating lunch together, talking about the latest Apple products.  Only hours before Keye’s death David and he had been exchanging text messages about a new iPhone app.

We buried Keye on Tuesday – his family, friends, coworkers.  David and I have cried a thousand tears and I know we have thousands more still yet to come. It sucks.

I don’t have words of wisdom. I haven’t learned some great lesson from all of this. People close to me have died. They are gone and that is that.

I’ve never wanted to be famous. I think it is odd how the generation behind me seems to be so obsessed with fame. What a strange thing to crave. Is it the money they want? Because honestly there are easier ways to make a lot of money than being famous.  Recently I have realized that there are certain alter life paths I wish I could have followed.

Path #1: Bad Ass Gun Toting Super Hero

Part of me has always longed for the ability to pull a gun out and shoot. Not that I would want to kill a person. No, I don’t think I would actually have the courage for that. However, I wish I had the confidence and lack of fear that a bad ass gun toting super hero needs to have. I would like to have the training that it takes to know that if somebody came into my house to do something bad I could take them down. A sort of Trinity from “The Matrix” meets Wonder Woman meets Word Girl.  Not to mention that looking good in spandex would be a plus.

Path #2 Stand Up Comedian

This is a rather selfish ambition because this has less to do with wanting to make other people laugh as it is that I just like to laugh. I like to be funny and I like to be around funny people. As a writer I’m plagued with adequacy. Regardless of profession the truly successful are driven to the point of extreme. Famous, successful writers write because they have books longing to be poured from their soul. Yeah, not a lot of yearning going on inside of me. Same is true for humor. I like to think that I’m funny and I have moments of funny but funny enough to make other people laugh? Not so much.  I have just enough ability at humor to make sure my lectures don’t put my students asleep, and even that is debatable.

Path #3 An Incredibly Fit And Comfortable With Nature Anthropologist

I loved anthropology in college.  I like to fanatasize that in another life time I might have travelled the world studying strange cultures and learning interesting languages.  What has prevented me from doing this is that I don’t particularly like to sweat, and bugs.  I’m  like a delicate lotus flower that would melt under the heat of a strange land and my personal disgust of large unidentifiable bugs (well, really anything larger than a cricket) is about enough to send me into a full blown anxiety attack.  However, if I knew that I would look amazingly cute in a pair of khaki field shorts and a tank top I might be willing to overcome these things. As things stand for now I can only dream about a life filled with sitting around camp fires talking with people in loin cloths.

Remember how I told you that we put a bid on a house and it was rejected? Well, the owner changed her mind and now – right now – as we head into the holidays and while I’m 7 months pregnant – we are selling our house and  moving.  I’ve already documented my delicate emotional state during this pregnancy and this additional stress has truly sent me to “crazy town”.  So currently, David’s day looks something like this:

7:00 AM wakes up to me reminding him to not forget about Max’s lunch and don’t fall back to sleep

8:30 AM – 6:00 PM After an hour long commute that can only be compared to a slow death march he arrives at work where his schedule is usually non-stop meetings peppered with people complaining that he isn’t in enough places at the same time.

5:30 PM – 6:30 PM Receives approximately 20 phone calls/text messages from me asking if he’s left yet.

6:00 PM – 7:00 PM Death march commute in reverse

7:00 PM is greeted by me hysterical about who knows what and the kids simultaneously talking and poking him in the tummy.  There is no dinner. I made mac-n-cheese for the kids. The leftovers are in the pot.

8:00 PM he puts the kids to bed which is probably the only time somebody is nice to him all day

9:00 PM he gets back on his computer and works for an hour or more. He catches up on emails or freelance work

10:30 PM He returns to the family room to find me asleep on the couch and he’s left to watch The Colbert Report by himself.

Why this man has not run from the house screaming I have no idea. Every pregnancy is unique and the emotional upheaval of this pregnancy is quite pronounced. David is worried that I’m going to go all crazy after the baby is born and will pull a “Dooce” and end up in a mental hospital. I’m hoping I will find my way to medication before I get to that point but yes, the emotional carnage of pregnancy is scary and I am as worried about it as he is. In the meantime I’m so, so, so grateful that I have an awesome husband who, for the most part, cheerfully puts up with my crazy.