I'm sitting here and the countdown to pick-up time is eating away at the clock. I've been crying on and off all morning, whenever I stop for a moment from whatever distraction I've filled with my purpose.
But now the laundry is finished and put away. The kitchen is spotless. There's no real point in scrubbing the floors since the cleaning lady did it just yesterday. I've changed my clothes three times, given up on my hair entirely and finished my book on tape. And I'm still crying, little fits that last a moment and then pass. I know that keeping busy is my solution, but there's not much left to physically do around the house. If I could go to the gym I would, but the daycare there is closed from 1 to 4, so I can't take my girls with me.
I'm tempted to call and have the daycare keep them the rest of the day, but I know I won't. For one thing, I promised Anna that she wouldn't be taking any more naps at school. It's very important to me to keep promises I make to my kids. Mostly, though, I know that I'll feel terrible the whole time they are there, just as I feel terrible now that I left Silvia for the morning when today she is supposed to be home, having mommy all to herself.
Having them with me certainly gives me a thing to do, there is no question about that. But I hate these little cloud bursts of tears and hate even more for the girls to see me in the midst of them. So, here I sit, amorphously weepy in a sparkling clean house. The minutes are past and it's time to go gather my children, tears or not. We'll take to the fresh air, water the plants until they drown and blow bubbles until I pass out. Staying busy is not a problem with two toddlers. Keeping my mind busy, though, is another matter entirely.