Bad Days

The four of us have been on top of each other for two weeks, and honestly, it’s getting old. The kids seem unusually loud and constantly ravenous, except after I spend an hour cooking them a healthy meal. I’m trying not to betray my annoyance, which today is triggered by almost everything they do—eating crackers on the couch, trying to walk down the stairs in roller skates, asking me over and over if I will set up an Etsy store to sell their perler bead creations. It’s supposed to rain all day, so I can’t send them outside. And it’s cold, and I am so done with the cold.

Here in Michigan, the cases of sickness are spiking. Scott and I have started the sobering process of sanitizing everything we bring into the house. A doctor friend of mine was recently assigned to the COVID ICU for the coming month, maybe more. My brother, a physical therapist assistant who works primarily with high-risk populations, continues to head out each day into this horror. There is an end to this, I know, but we cannot see it yet.

Still, the comfort of a bad day is that a better day almost always follows. So I am just going to let today be bad. I’m going to sit here on the bottom without trying to boost myself back up. I’m going to let the kids watch too many cartoons, and I’m going to take a long walk alone and read unchallenging fiction and drink too much hard seltzer.

And then tomorrow, I’m going to get up, and I’m going to try again.

Published by Michelle

Writer, reader, homesteader, pluralist Mennonite

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