These Days

There are days when I wake and the countdown to bedtime begins. There are days when even the garden can’t help me, can’t silence my rushing thoughts, can’t cure my exhaustion. There are days when it is 8:30 in the morning and my children are already bored and fighting. 

These days the humidity is thick and sticks to my pajamas. Some mornings we make it to the garden, picking flowers before the real heat sets in, but other mornings we stay inside—the air too thick, my exhaustion too great. 

Time moves slowly on these days, the days I don’t have it in me to be better, the days I’m almost asleep by lunch. I tread water, watching the time slowly slip by, each hour feeling like three. On these days they watch too much TV and I try to slow my thoughts, try to shut my eyes for a few moments, but then I see the piles and the toys on the floor and the guilt sets in. There is always the feeling that I should be doing more but on these days my only thought is of making it to bedtime. These are the days that I’m envious of my younger self and the freedom that I once had. 

But even on these days there are moments of peace: my children making an art project on their own, my daughter reading to my son. There are still popsicles on the porch and board games on the living room floor, puzzles and special afternoon movies. There are enough moments to fill several days—too many to soak in. 

I always make it to bedtime, I tell myself. I always settle into my daughter’s room and read her stories until her breathing is slow, her body finally still. I often fall asleep on her pillow, often slur my words as I read to her. When I finally wake, I creep out of her room, the next day already stretching before me in my mind.