Floundering

Snow fell in Michigan Friday, sparkling flakes that blew in the wind and barely coated the ground, brittle grass peeking through the white afghan.

We made tracks briefly as we walked to the car in the morning, but Abbey kept floating to the window, asking when we could go play in the snow. A simple request, especially considering it was the first real snow we’ve seen this year.

I dragged my heels, thinking of the pulling on of snow pants, the wrestling mittens onto Dylan’s unwilling hands, the way the cold would sneak through the loose knit of my grey cap.

Dylan resisted his nap, finally falling asleep an hour after I expected; I exhaled, calculating that darkness would be creeping into the sky by the time he awoke.

Cloaked in guilt, my shoulders sagged.

I’ve been floundering lately, inexplicably on the verge of tears, feeling overwhelmed despite being more on top of my streamlined responsibilities than I have in months. Instead of appreciating the fifty-four items checked off my list, I’m focusing on the two stragglers that remain unfinished. 

My patience is thin.

I avoided playing in the snow.

Abbey crawled in my lap to read a book, looking sadly at Dylan’s closed door, as though it was his fault that we weren’t bundled against the cold. Her weight on my legs surprises me lately, the way I have to strain around the soft hair that once fit so compactly against my chest.

There won’t be many more Januaries where she and Dylan are home with me, excepting a few hours of preschool each week. There won’t be many more Januaries where they look to their snow pants with excitement and not disdain for such juvenile trappings.

Pushing back my hesitation, I slid her off my lap, pulling jackets and snow pants and hats and mittens and gloves out of the closet, readying them for the moment Dylan began stirring in his room.

Gleefully, they played in the inch of snow, Abbey making snow angel after snow angel, not caring if she was on the grass or the driveway. Dylan shadowed her, cheeks reddening as dusk threatened to slide into darkness.

I wish I could end with the fading light, our moments of laughter crowding out the anxiety hovering somewhere in my chest.

But Dylan’s tantrum on having to go inside was epic.

Our public school district is moving to all-day kindergarten, which doesn’t affect us now but may change our plans for next year.

I need new running shoes.

All little bumps that shouldn’t add up to much stress at all.

My brain knows this.

But as rain turned to sleet outside my window today, tears pricked behind my eyes, reminding me that this feeling wasn’t so simply exorcised.

And I’m not sure why.

 

Thanks to Shell for Pour Your Heart Out.

I needed it this week.