It's been a rollercoaster week. A good friend of mine had surgery on Thursday, and I haven't heard from her yet, so I hope that she is okay. It's hold your breath kind of surgery, so I have been thinking about her a lot. Kate and Ethan are both getting over ear infections, and Ethan's was really bad, in both ears. The tubes make it so much easier for him to get rid of the infection, but the stuff that comes out of his ears when he has an infection is unspeakable. (He has now recovered sufficiently, however, to be demonstrating over and over exactly how five minutes ago he ran, bounced off the wall, and rolled across the floor.)

On the other side of the equation, our real estate agent in New York called us this week with news that one of the other realtors in her office rented out half of a large farmhouse they owned. The current tenants were going to be moving out in mid-March and the rental would be available April 1; did we want it? "It has three bedrooms, two "extra" rooms, an eat-in kitchen, dining room, and living room, two miles outside of town, and it's on a working dairy farm."

To which I said, "Holy cow! How big is the house???"

Ok, so I didn't actually say holy cow to the realtor. I said holy cow to my husband, who must put up with my bad puns because he's just as bad as I am, if not worse. And the house, actually, is huge, and it's mostly beautiful inside, except for the accoustic tile ceilings, but if you're a writer all false ceilings do is provide you with an opportunity to exercise your imagination. The house also has a beautiful back yard with a rock wall and a line of birches, and it is indeed on a working dairy farm, complete with milk trucks.

So why would I want a tiny little apartment in the suburbs when I can go pester dairy farmers about what they do all day? I mean, really. Could it be any more perfect?

But the best thing is, I WILL ACTUALLY HAVE AN OFFICE. And it is not in a cramped, musty basement. It is in a sunroom, with a line of big, sunny windows.

God is looking out for us, I think. Because this also means we will not have to fly up there next month. (Frankly, I have had enough of flying for quite some time, and do not wish to rack up any more miles, particularly while dragging 3 children along with me.)

In the midst of all this upheaval, I have managed a little bit of writing. I wrote a 490 word story -- quite an accomplishment for me, to keep something that short -- and entered it in the Flashquake alternate reality 500 word story contest. I noodled out most of an essay about homeschooling yesterday in longhand in my notebook. I actually opened Storm Clouds, chapter 11, today and made some revisions to it, although that was an exercise in futility, I think, because approximately every five minutes someone would start crying, and then once I had gotten going (a ten minute chunk!), Andy decided he was going to try to finish painting the front door while watching Ethan, and Ethan walked in the paint and tracked little white footprints all over the wood floor.

Which is something I think that most people do not exactly want to put in their decor. This selling a house thing is tough.