TIVOLI JENSEN

It all starts earlier than you like.  Or later.  Either way, its not starting when you wanted.  You’re already missing something, you’re sure, and everything is going wrong.  You burn the toast, because pushing it down once is never enough and you turned your back for one second and now your kitchen is filled with the smell of carcinogens and brewing rage.  While walking your coffee to the table, you step on a Lego plane, almost break your neck, and now you’re covered in the last of your Panamanian roast from Sprouts.  Your son begins crying because you broke the plane he just built.  His tears seem like manifestations of the anguish you feel in side.  You really wanted that coffee.  Which reminds you about your dwindling adrenals and how you have a dependence on a tar-looking beverage.  You will not change this any time soon.

You fix the plane.  He cries because the pilot’s arms are up instead of down.  You explain that the pilot’s arms have to be up for him to sit there, and then you realize that this is your life right now, placating a three-year-old about how or how not to use a plastic man on a plastic airplane.

You take deep breaths.  You sit down for breakfast, looking hungrily at the buttered toast the rest of your family eats.  You repeat your mantra, “I am the positive energy I put out in the universe.”  You wait.  You breathe again.

Sometimes this works for you.

Today, it does not.

You go on through the morning, minor hiccups, but they all seem worse to you, and then realize you have a huge project to accomplish that you almost forgot about.  Time picks up speed, everything dwindling.

You can’t find the blanket your daughter asks for, or the toy car your son wants, or the mail your husband left right there but now is not right there because it was a silly place and in the line of fire for a hundred things.  You locate the letter.  The blanket and toy car do not have such luck.

By naptime, which occurs an hour late because of course– but you did not resort to putting on a movie yet, so good for you– you’re a wreck.  The boy and girl, the lights of your life, the wonderment of your soul, will not shut up long enough for you to read even three words out of the book they chose– Hercules which is so godawful and you don’t know why they insist on this blase prose day after day.  Its so freaking boring and you have no qualms about skipping pages so that it seems Hades is the main character.  Not that they hear you anyway, because Mr. Pig and Spider-Man are discussing the gravitational pull of the moon and how that causes rainbows or some other scientifically inaccurate notion that three-year-olds are experts on.

After trying to shush one more time, your voice cracks.  It breaks.  They will not see you cry.  You take a deep breath, a shaky breath, and the dam of negativity fractures in your mind, filling your heart with the sad thoughts that you thought you’d done away with by now.

You do want a break.  You do look pudgy in those shorts because they’re awful shorts, so its fine.  You do need more coffee, too.  And that dumb project is still not done.  You audibly growl, and then catch yourself audibly growling.

You’ve turned into a big bear of emotions and rage.  You think to yourself, “That’s not good.”  And then you realize you’re talking to yourself, but cannot dawdle on it longer, for the girl just took the boy’s favorite stuffed animal and is looking so mischievous and then she pops it up as if its a magic trick.  Normally this makes you laugh.  Today it makes you growl again.

After they finally go to sleep, at 3:30pm, ensuring a 5am wakup tomorrow because logic of little kids, you start on the dishes.  And you cry.  And you think about how the silverware are like people and how people are so dirty sometimes, and sometimes it takes a while for them to be clean, but once clean they’re good as new.

You feel dirty.  Not that you did something wrong, though you did– you’ve been a supreme bitch all day and you know it but God we’re trying– you just feel overused.  The grime of everything– sleepless nights, early wake ups, thing after thing to get done, disappointment, anger, sadness, doing so much… Its left this tarnished filth upon your life.

The dishes are done.  Your face is blotchy and tear-stained but you feel better.  A good cry always does that.  And washing dishes does that.

You sigh and make your way to the couch, ruminating on how this whole day is shot and everything is terrible.  That you’re terrible.  And then you feel melodramatic which makes you feel more terrible because everyone hates melodramatic people.

On the couch, you stare at nothing.  And then, you call it.

“This is a bad day,” you whisper.

And you realize that you’re the bad day.  You’re the thing out of alignment and you haven’t been self-caring or self-loving– the contrary, you’ve been pretty mean to yourself.  And to everyone.  And that’s not fair.  And you feel worse.

Suddenly, from the depths of your mind, you remember that phrase that someone shared a while ago.

You are not your bad days.

And your eyes get misty and you think about how you can do better and be better, you just need to breathe for a little bit and step away.

Before you  know it, you’re asleep (5am does that to a person) and a little boy is scrambling to lay on your chest.  Because even though you’ve had a bad day, you’re not your bad days, and if they can still love you, you can still love you.

You sniffle a little bit and hold him closer.  And then your eyes close again, and you drift back into slumber.