Breakfast shouldn't have been that much work yesterday.
The steaming, syruppy pile of pancakes invited me in,
but I didn't want them.
The warm winter sun beat down my back as I sat at the table,
but I couldn't enjoy it.
In my heart, Monday kept bullying Sunday.
My husband sensed my intermittant attempts
to be strong,
to stop the tears from flowing
every time I thought about my
maternity leave ending;
and taking my coughing baby to day care;
and wondering how our sleep schedules would meld with work responsibilities;
and imagining how crazy our mornings would be from tomorrow forward.
"Tomorrow's a big day, isn't it?"
his question more like the nod of agreement.
"Maybe we could make everything easier tonight
if Reid and I pick up dinner.
Anywhere you want.
Then, no kitchen clean-up will eat away our evening."
It was then Monday's menacing grip loosened and
Sunday's responsibility load lessened.
It was then I smiled,
and prepared to enjoy the day
and the anticipation of delicious dinner
I didn't have to fix.
It was then I felt the sun.