is dashing from one task to another.
Up, dressed, kids up, dressed,
off to work/school/daycare,
work work work
workworkwork
WORKWORKWORK,
spin class,
kidstoddhome,
fix dinner, eat,
pay bills, make appointments,
bathe kids, kids to bed,
yoga,
collapse on the sofa and sleep.
All time for feeling is gone.
I don't have time for grief, joy, amusement...
I feel like I am moving from one objective to the next.
Somehow I find time for stress:
Too many bills, not enough money,
too little time, too many tasks.
Too many people, not enough talking,
too much talking, not enough thinking.
Bickering,
trying to listen intently,
trying to be interested, involved, amused.
I'm on autopilot.
I'm spinning my wheels.
I'm...
Alone in the car for a moment.
I'm in the house for just a minute,
after Todd and the kids have left, before I head to work.
I am in the bathroom washing my hands
on the way from my office to someone else's.
I am walking to my car from spin class...
These are the moments that it hits.
It hits without warning, without any tangible provocation.
It hits so hard.
It startles me every time.
I jump at a sound, painfully familiar...
a strangled cry, a sound of infinate pain... of release.
It's me,
and I never know it right away.
Then the tears come.
Sometimes they just stream down my face,
a silent and scared sadness
that doesn't want anyone to know.
Other times it comes in sobs,
loud and uncontrolled;
sudden, violent, and terrifying.
You are always there, my son,
please don't feel forgotten,
please don't feel passed by.
You are always there at the edge of everything I do.
You are always right there...
but not there enough.
And so my grief finds me,
even if I don't have time for it,
it finds the time for me.
But, my baby, you are always there.
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