I stood at the kitchen counter and the unfamiliar suggestions crept into my conscience. “Whole wheat waffles might be nice this morning.” I opened the flour cupboard…. “cinnamon roles, haven’t made those in a while….or a nice loaf of oatmeal bread?” I paused, reflecting. I haven’t felt like cooking or baking in years. Was I carb starved?
I looked at the forecast. Nice and warm and overcast until afternoon rain comes in. “Hum, I could take the kids walking at the quarry….we have some beautiful white rocks we could paint first, then we could hide them for other kids to find….that would require sharing my new paint pens, and potential mess control….that could be fun.”
What?! My new unwashable paint pens in the kids’ hands? Am I going crazy?
Maybe not. This is how I used to be. Energetic. Project-oriented.
The night before I was bushed. I put the kids to bed at 7:00, then went back out into the garden to attack the bed I’d started earlier, but I could barely keep my eyes open. It was only 8:00, but I called it a night, took a shower, closed the curtains against the still-bright sky, and crawled into bed. Two minutes later I reached for my phone, thinking that with a quiet house I should at least read a chapter of my book….but gave it up after 10 minutes, squirted nasal decongestant up my sinuses (I’ve had a stinking cold all week), and turned out the light.
The next morning I stirred and looked at my watch. 6:00. I turned over; a luxury of a Sunday morning is that I don’t have to get up early. But I didn’t sleep again. I wasn’t tired. It wasn’t even 7:00 a.m. yet, on a Sunday morning, and I got up, made a pot of tea, emptied the dish washer, then started on the strangely energetic thoughts.
Revelation: At 37, maybe I’m not old. Maybe I’m just chronically tired.