The water is too hot. It burns my skin as it washes over me. I move towards the knob but hesitate before turning it down. So often my showers are tepid, mild temperatures necessitated by the small bodies that join me. So today, although I know my skin will be red and angry when I emerge, the heat feels like a sanctuary. I close my eyes as it cascades over me and I remember a different life. For a moment the hot water makes everything feel new.
My repose is shattered by a crashing sound. My eyes open and I jolt myself back into reality. The shower curtain has been pulled open and there is now a large plastic tank at my feet. “I gots you a toy!” my delighted three-year-old announces. I mask my annoyance and feign delight at his sweet gesture. As I tune back into the world I had just barely managed to tune out, I hear my daughter crying from her crib.
I turn the hot water off and step into the frigid air.
I remember a time when each day began anew. Roll out of bed and straight into the shower, water set to whatever temperature I wanted. Emerge clean, ready to face the day. These days, my days don’t even seem to have a beginning or ending and I rarely feel ready to face anything. Three children and a nursing baby up all hours of the night means that time takes on a different meaning. The days and nights blend together in a relentless loop of caregiving.
I am filled with jealousy when I think about my husband, getting up every day and taking a shower immediately. I yearn for that kind of routine and predictability. The baby is always in my bed when I awake. Even if nobody else is making demands of me I can’t get up and shower for fear she will roll off the bed. So I face most days unwashed.
My mother is talking to me. Trying to give me simple directions and I can’t focus on her words. There’s something I needed to remember, something I needed to do. The task is on the cusp of my brain but my mother’s words bleed together with the baby’s cries and push it out of reach.
Two hours later, snapping at the toddler over something silly, I remember.
Eat. I needed to eat.
Without sleep or structure, I am adrift. The edges of my life feel fuzzy. I cannot make decisions. I cannot find words. I cannot problem solve simple things. It feels self-indulgent to say that I am overwhelmed so I find myself rationalizing away my feelings. I argue both sides; convincing myself that it’s not all that bad until my self-talk takes a nosedive and I berate myself for all the ways I am coming up short. It’s just a season, it’s just a moment, I tell myself. But my brain isn’t responding to reason.
Eventually, I come up for air. I eat lunch. The baby sleeps. A glass of wine or a sympathetic ear always show up before I reach my breaking point.
Shower (if I’m lucky) Rinse. Repeat.
