Outside, the dark clouds issue threats of snow. The humidity and wind deceive me, as I stand shivering. The fog rolling off the hills tell stories of long nights, short days, and disappointments. The heater blasts against the inevitable cold.
I think of those without shelter. Without food. Without family.
I think of those who are suffering, in body or spirit.
I think of my pains right now.
My eyes tell no lies. I cannot hide the tears as they flow down my cheeks and onto my baby’s face. I turn away.
The Queen wants something. She, in her usual toddler manner, screams and points. I don’t know what she wants. I can’t help her. The frustration wells inside my chest. I feel the overwhelming burden of motherhood whispering of my duties. My failures.
I want to hide. I want to find time for myself, but babies demand my attention. They need me.
The drone of the TV drains my tenuous patience. The constant chatter of the announcers. The washer and dryer announcing more loads of laundry. The babies screaming. Me, trying to keep my cool. It almost works. Almost.
Mr. B looks at me. He asks what is wrong. I can’t tell him. My stutter discourages me. My insufficient vocabulary mixed with muddled thoughts tie my tongue. I turn away. The tears come again.
The exhaustion racks my body. I have so much to do, but lack the energy to complete the tasks.
I am angry. Nursing hurts, still. I take ibuprofen and rely on my iron will to get me through each session. I don’t want advice telling me “If he is latched on correctly, it shouldn’t hurt.” He is, dang it. I want to quit, but I know, or hope, it will get better. Please, don’t let these cognitions be in vain. Please.
Breathe. Count to 30. Eat another cookie. Drink more water. Anything to distract from the pain.
My spirit is weighed down with troubles. My dear cousin is experiencing something most tragic. Her pregnancy will either result in a spontaneous abortion or the baby will die during birth. She is 17 weeks along. I cry for her pain. I cry for the injustice. I cry because I don’t know how to comfort her.
The news tells of a medical student, with an 8-month old daughter, stuck in a cave. He has died, but they cannot retrieve his body. His wife is a widow, with who knows how much debt, and now must learn how to navigate single motherhood.
Thanksgiving is over. I have so much to be grateful for, but my mind cannot focus on those right now. I am hurting. I am sad. I am angry. Most of all, I am tired.
The weather matches my melancholy mood. My eyes are clouds, threatening snow showers. My Spirit is the fog, with the disappointments. My heart mimics the long, cold, nights and the short, dreary, days. I am searching for the light.