The clock swung forward early this morning. I awoke in a haze, foggy by last night's seemingly harmless activities (two glasses of wine and a toddler taking up a majority of my bed). It's not a subtle thing, the forced changing of clock time. It's aggressive in its shift and often leaves me feeling squeezed and ferocious.
So when:
my three year old says no!
the kichen sink is full
laundry spills over the edge of a basket
text messages and emails line up like soldiers
the bed goes unmade
my hair ties itself into knots
pages go unwritten
my underwear fall down
the refrigerator hums
the cat howls
my husband snores
I try to think of the numbers on the clock as made up stories I've told myself to remember not to believe.
And if that doesn't work, I sit in a mud pile and wait.
