a scribble of jo

It’s been a long day. I’ve been telling myself we’ll make it to bedtime with everyone’s sanity and hearts intact. I’ve been telling myself we’re doing great and it’s ok to be a little tuckered out. I’ve been telling myself I’m just a little tense with the old nerves, it’s been a long day, you know.

I come in here to my bedroom to run the clock, maybe four or five—six, even—minutes and I can make that last push to get everyone to their beds. I’ll sleep with Sam again because it’s just how it goes these days, better than trying to put this mattress sized pile of clothes away. Just nestle into his corkscrewy sleep and five a.m. comes right on time. It’s never been late. I just need a few minutes because, you know, it’s been a long day, and all that.

Lying here though on my stomach in the middle of socks and a lot of t-shirts and a disproportionate few underpants—why don’t children wear more underpants?— I’m looking out the window, and I see all these fingerprints and some dog licks dried on it. A line of purple marker. I should clean this window, I think. But then I hear my daughter upstairs crying and I can’t make myself get up to console her, let alone find the windex. It’s been a long day.

What I’m really thinking is I wish someone would console me. What I’m really thinking is that it’s not fair to be a tired single mom on top of just being a single mom in general because there’s no one to tap in when everything safe and sane says you better tap out. Nobody walks through the back door with enough authority or love to take over and help little feet into their pajamas. Nobody walks in knowing where the detangler is, or how important it is to use the blue brush instead of the black comb. Nobody walks in reminding them to put on a new pair of underpants. I know, it’d be creepy if someone did…

What I’m really thinking is that it’s been a long four years.

Four years of any hustle and yep, you get good at it, almost so good you forget how unnatural it is.

Four years of this hustle and…impossible. How can this be? How can even one more day of this be required?

That’s what I’m thinking. That one more day isn’t possible. That one more day is 24 hours too much for this tired mama to manage. That one more day is just the littlest bit outside His purview, and if one more child requires just one more ounce while I’m just trying to make it to bedtime, then…And yes, someone really should clean this window because I can’t tell what body part would’ve left that kind of imprint!

That’s what I’m thinking when my eyes blur enough to finally see past the glass, and I finally notice the rainbow He has adorned across the sky.

What have You promised? I wonder.

And just like that, it’s bedtime.

We made it.