His Name is Ralph

Things to doing with a broken-pain-pierced heart, a muddled-foggy-head, and a back-bending-cramping-nauseating stomachache:

Climb out of bed when the children wake at six in the morning. No matter how late you fell asleep. It could’ve been half-past three or quarter to five. Quick now, on your feet.

Tell them to turn the television down from blaring loudness to a quiet tone. Which is down to only number ten; too low for them, too loud for you still to deal with all that’s mumbling in your head.

Put breakfast together, or think of what it will be, for them 3. Different palettes, different faves. Makes life interesting indeed.

Shuffle around the messes here and over there. To-be folded clothes hanging off the couch and dining table. Food particles, dust and treat wrappers in that corner. Dishes from the last few days piled with take-out garbage all over the counter. Putting years of organizational skills to the test. Hey, you’re trying your best.

Make a list of all to be attempted before the evening. Online learning, hunger curbing, bathroom cleaning, staring at the ceiling. If it’s not one, it’s the other. It’s all such a bother because by the evening the kids will be asleep dreaming. And at least they’ve enjoyed their day.

Eventually, there’s some quiet, stillness in the air. It was possible to tidy after all – the only task to make that gigantic elephant small. Take a load

off now, sit on the big comfy couch. Enjoy the air of calm chaos quick before you get side-tracked again. In and out, breathe deep please.

You’ll have to finish your tasks another day, the elephant’s coming back this way. It’s astonishingly hard to take deep breathes when you feel like you’re being fucking compressed. Crushed and bruised with still so much to do.

Toodles for now, we’ll talk soon.

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