Laundry

This morning likely looks like any other average Saturday morning. Isaiah came in and woke me asking for his ‘breakfix.’ I dragged myself out of bed, hoping to give my exhausted husband some extra rest. I can’t sleep anyway.

I sliced Isaiah some cinnamon bread and got myself some cereal. Today is a victory I guess. I ate breakfast. Isaiah has no clean clothes. Yesterday morning was one of the hardest. There were no clean clothes which triggered a full on 6 year old melt down. Those are hard on the best days, yesterday I barely held it together. The teachers at Isaiah’s school likely think I’ve turned into a zombie.

So, laundry. The kid needs clean clothes. But even this task is a minefield spewing the shrapnel of my former life. Yesterday Will emptied the laundry basket of its contents, baby clothes. Little shorts, little shirts, sweet PJs. I couldn’t do it. They’ve been sitting there, on the washing machine for three weeks and five days. I couldn’t bear to think about what to do with his tiny clothes. I couldn’t bear to look at them, not an entire basket full. But I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else taking them away. So there they sat. My husband is my hero. To say he’s amazing would not begin to describe the weight he carries. I adore my man.

But today as I folded laundry while Isaiah sat on the floor coloring rainbows and asking me to help him spell “The rainbows are God’s promises” (yeah, pretty stink’n beautiful, huh?) and looking for all intents and purposes like any average Saturday morning mom I had to lay a pair of mismatched baby socks on the table with my folded laundry. They’re still sitting there shooting webs of lightning through my already aching body.

My functionality is increasing. I’m able to converse, at least with one person at a time. Groups send me running back inside myself, the unexpected addition on of anyone to my world turns me into a turtle, tucked away in my shell. But I’ve been to lunch. I’ve even managed to order my own food without appearing to have some sort of disorder. This is progress. I assure you.

But the appearance of ‘normality’ is not an indicator of normality. The desperate, aching pain still churns inside. Laundry hurts, waking up at 8:15 instead of 6:00 hurts, empty arms hurt, quiet hurts. Everything hurts. I miss him and I will never be the same.