You’re so tired you could cry. Every muscle aches, especially the ones the baby has been pushing against all day. So tired all you want to do is crawl into bed and sleep until August, but you can’t, because there’s no one else who can pick up the pieces that you would drop.
You’ve been sick for two days, but you’re finally well enough to go back to work. It’s a long day, which ends with a sewing class you’re still not sure what possessed you to elect to take. You drive home like a robot, thinking of only your warm, soft bed, but when you get there you are greeted with chaos.
The house looks like a tornado has hit it. Tomorrow the cleaners come and some sense needs to be made of this madness. If you don’t pick up at least a little it’ll take weeks to find anything. You can hear your husband snoring in the bedroom. He was finally making some progress towards healing his shoulder. He was finally having days with less pain. But today he decided he was feeling well enough to carry a box, and now he’s in agony again. But whatever, clearly any entreaties to take care of himself are falling on deaf ears. He doesn’t see how tired you are and how much you need him to get better so you can finally rest, why waste even more precious energy telling him again?
So tired you could cry, but you hold it together as you pick up fallen toys. Why the 12 pack of toilet paper purchased on Monday is sitting in the middle of the living room is beyond you. It doesn’t matter really, just one more thing to put away. You hold it together until you come across the mail. There’s a letter from a friend. From the friend you went away with on Friday. To that seedy motel. She thinks you’re awesome and that it’s you who made the trip fun. A sweet gesture at the end of a long, long day. Now you’re tired and crying, but the toys still need to be put away and the snoring endured before you can finally go to bed.