It is late November, the holidays are settling over us, murmurs about Santa and letters of gratitude in a child’s determined hand fill the house. The girls are finally asleep, the anticipation of “fay-cajun with us all” having kept them pinging off one another from daybreak to mom-cracking. I’m sitting in the kitchen, avoiding the little things that need to be finished—a pile of glitter, rice and pine needles peeking out from behind the straw bristles of the broom, unmatched socks and washcloths still to be folded—and sipping that forbidden third cup of coffee. Here in the quiet between preparation and execution, I am numb. I have that pre-release tension, wanting so much to have everything set just right before I unclench my mind. I…