Right now, Wyatt is hanging out in the living room which, in our apartment, is right next to the dining room, which is where my little office area is set up. The only reason this is worth reporting is because he’s supposed to be sleeping right now. Like his brother. Not that I’m drawing comparisons or starting any sort of sibling rivalry for my affections or anything.

One of the biggest adaptations I’ve had to make since the boys were born is the ability to roll with the punches. When something like this happens — one of the boys wakes up way too early or refuses to eat — it completely shuts me down because I know this means the day is fucked. Wyatt waking up early means his nap schedule is blown for the day. He’ll be tired when Boone’s up and trying to squeeze in an extra nap to get him back on track garners the same emotional result as strapping him into the stroller then pushing it down a flight of stairs. And if I wake Boone up now to keep them on the same schedule, I’ll just have two cranky babies all day instead of one.

When I was a journalist, I was great at handling crises as they arose. Stories would crap out at the last minute, people missed deadlines, advertisers pulled out leaving a space to fill, programs crashed, reporters would be too hungover to write — I could deftly tackle any of it. In fact, I thrived on it. The difference is stories never screeched at the top of their lungs. A missing ad never cried uncontrollably. A blown deadline never refused to eat its puréed green beans.

The adaptation has been a hard one, but I’m getting the hang of it. I just have to be comfortable with the fact that some (maybe all) of the things I needed to get done today won’t get done. That’s fine. Sure, it means I might not get paid for a freelance gig, which means I won’t have money to buy food or gas, but it’s okay. I’m not blaming them. Well, not Boone anyway.