Staring at the Wall

It's 4:15 AM. I wake up from a dream about how President Trump is keeping me from moving into my house on time by hoarding all the candy-canes for himself. Or a dream about how I want to see my husband, but something always gets in the way. Or a dream about how I've planned a trip but can't find my passport and always miss my train.

But it's 4:15. I'm still tired. This time, I tell myself, I'll be able to fall back asleep.

It's 4:37. I'm not asleep. I check my phone, checking to see if we've had a direct deposit from all that overtime Clark's been working. The direct deposit isn't there. I check social media to see if anything is new. Nothing is new. I put my phone back and close my eyes. 

It's 5:16. Nadine is up earlier than she should be, and because all the kids share a room, she wakes up Jonas before he is ready. Jonas asks me to make breakfast. I say I'll make pancakes. He says he doesn't want pancakes in that grating, whiny voice. He forgets to say please. 

It's 5:44. The pancakes are ready. Jonas complains because they are plain, without chocolate chips or blueberries. I say it's too early for me to make breakfast anyway and he should just be happy he has food. Nadine takes her pancakes and sticks them into her milk cup instead of eating them. 

It's 6:26. Tennyson wakes up. I tell the kids to get their chores done. Jonas pretends he does not hear. Tennyson starts unloading the dishwasher, but somehow ends up downstairs building a new boat out of legos. I tell Jonas to get dressed. I tell Tennyson to finish the dishes.

It's 7:31. The dishes are not done. Jonas is still not wearing pants. Nadine has not eaten her pancake/milk creation. She dumped it on the carpet under the table. Clark gets home from work and goes downstairs to take off his uniform. I remind Tennyson he has work to do.

The dishes remain undone until I do them.

Nadine always finds another crayon or marker and another wall to decorate.

I spend a half hour washing it off.

Mommy, I'm hungry.

Jonas and Tennyson fight over legos. Jonas bites Tennyson on the stomach. Tennyson cries and hits Jonas on the head. 

I retreat. I play the piano and ignore it. I find something to watch on my laptop. I fold laundry in the basement with the door closed. 

There is always cereal on the floor being ground into the carpet.

Mommy, I'm hungry. Where's the remote?

The toilet is somehow always not flushed. 

The shoes are not on the shelf where they should be.

We're out of milk again. 

Is it dinner time yet? What are we having? But I hate soup. No, I won't eat it. I don't like it. 

Today, I drove to the gym without any music on. Or audiobook. Or radio. I drove in silence for twenty minutes.

When I got there, I sat in my car for five minutes and I stared at nothing. 

I went in, I said hello, I did my warm up, and I started the workout. Twenty-four minutes later, I finished the workout. I did the stretches.

And somebody asked me, "Julie, what are you baking for Christmas this year?"

"Nothing." I answered.

"Why not?" They asked.

I mumbled something about not having anybody to really bake for or any events coming up. 

Why not? Because I'll have to clean the dishes after. Because I don't feel any joy in making cookies or cakes like I used to. Because I really don't have anywhere to take it. Because the phrase "bake someone happy" doesn't seem to mean what it used to. Because I don't see people and talk to them and hear their feedback. I don't know that they have a birthday coming up. I don't have kids to bake for in Sunday School. I didn't know they just had surgery or that their kid was sick last week. I don't know if they hate mint or if chocolate chip is their favorite flavor. Somehow, baking blind feels like an invasion of their privacy. 

And suddenly, the enormity of the futility just welled up inside me. What's the point of doing anything at all? I feel like I'm not the same person anymore. I'm irritated when people say that joy isn't canceled, because it seems like my joy has been. I feel like every day is an exercise in staring at the abyss, staring at the wall, seeing the Crayola shadows that the washcloth somehow missed, and feeling like the cup can't be filled because mine is full of holes.

I reached for my shoes
and put my sweater on, prepared to leave. And then: "Julie, you look sad."

We talked. I tried to explain the sheer weight of all the little things that seem to be leeching happiness away from me, but I still hold it in -- mostly. And then I got into my car. I stared out at the dark sky, and I sobbed. I cried with a grief I feel like I am not entitled to. And then, I drove home. 

What is to be done?

Waking up, I suppose, and somehow doing it all again tomorrow.