Morning Glory

I get out of bed thirsty, and run downstairs to get a glass of water.  I drink it down, and refill it, and drink it down again.  I start to refill it again, and then decide to just bring the whole pitcher with the glass upstairs.  I get up to the room, the room where we were sleeping an hour ago.  He is now long gone, off to work, his mind moved onto meetings, and plans, and train rides. 

I make the bed and pull the blanket up exactly square, and placed the pillows evenly.

I pick up the basket off the floor, and stand there folding the towels into perfect halves, and then perfect squares, and stack them up in a neat pile.  I am obsessed, with the corners meeting, the sizes stacked in order, the piles aligning square to the bed. 

I go to the machine, pick up the dirty clothes, and spray the spots with pre-spot.  I fold the sprayed clothes in half and put them into the basket, awaiting the next load.  Then I put the previously sprayed load in to the machine, adding soap, and brightener.   I listen to the dryer tumbling, waiting for the beep, when I can unload the clean, warm, clothes. I put them in the clean basket, bring them to the bed, and dump them out on top.  Then I begin to fold, sorting by child, making five piles, and two more piles for mom and dad. 

I finish folding and putting more laundry in.  I wash the hand washing items and hang them to dry.  I continuously listen to my playlist on YouTube.  I revel in the silence, before the storm of children wake up and say, “Mommy, I’m hungry, what’s for breakfast, I’m thirsty, can you make breakfast now…?”

I realize that I actually enjoy folding laundry; because I can make it do what I want, quietly, and make it look pretty.  Then I can put it away and it’s gone, off my bed.  My neat, clean, bed, with perfect corners.  For about 5 minutes.

 

In comes the storm.  She jumps on the bed, and rolls around on the pillows.  She giggles, and smiles, while messing up my corners.  I let her. 

By some miracle, she doesn’t ask for food, she just goes into her brother’s room with the others, and starts to play.  I go back into my room, close my white door, listen to my music on my phone until the battery dies, then I plug it in.  I think about my room, my space, and start to organize the magazines on the dresser, the magazines I never have time to read.  But they look nice in their neatly stacked pile. The pile stacked with hope, of someday, sitting on a beach and reading them, looking at the glossy pictures, of perfect days, miraculously coordinated outfits, with $300 accessories, and nothing real about them.

Seeing as it is still quiet, I continue on my closet organizing project, looking through the clothes and deciding what to keep, and what to give away.  I start to try on some clothes and make piles.  Mid-outfit change, the phone rings.  It’s the doctor’s office.  I realize that if I’m going to talk on the phone, and look at my schedule at the same time, I have to go downstairs.  I go downstairs to the computer, in my underwear.  I hope no one wakes up and sees me, and says, very confused, “Mom,” what are you doing?”  That is exactly what they would say, if I did anything absurd.  When they do something absurd, I have stopped questioning it.  

I get down to the computer, and make three physical appointments for the kids, and note that the next child’s isn’t due until November.  She says they aren’t scheduling November appointments now, so I will need to call back in late August.  I hope I remember to call back before January (it’s happened before). I go back upstairs and get dressed, before the kids notice me.  Maybe I can have a few more minutes of quiet.