Today is Saturday. Olive is crying with fantastic two-year-old volume and I’m not ready to begin this supposed day off with five underfoot and this heart that is bleeding. I read the Word, stomach lurching, and scribbled down a tragic prayer. Messy handwriting, short, bullet-like complaints, signing off with HELP ME in angry caps. The ink smears from the tears that have been leaking since the goodbyes began.  Because I married well, my husband took one look at my pale face and sent me to the office while he took charge of diaper changes, stirring oatmeal, and sorting through the meltdowns coming in hot and fast by 7am.  Pulling fat…