The Day After

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The day after is always the hardest, the most depressing.

Yesterday we got up at 5:30 am and brought R to the airport. The boy looked out the window the entire time we drove home. The girls, still groggy from waking up too early, probably had questions in their heads. Why is Daddy leaving again? Didn’t he just get here? Why can’t he stay longer? Why can’t he just stay?

As usual, I chatted the entire way home. We stopped at Starbucks on the way to church where I was volunteering to teach kindergarteners again.

This morning I felt awful.

I’m sure some of it is because I think I’m getting the flu, given to me by R himself. I feel a little achy and my stomach hurts in a different way. Not like I’m hungry or I’m nervous or I’m going to throw up but sort of like it’s making its presence known to the rest of my body.

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L came into my room and announced that she had to go potty.

“Just go,” I said from my half-slumber. “You don’t have to tell me.” Like you do every single morning, I thought.

Ten minutes later the boy came into my room. “Is it time to wake up?”

I looked at my alarm clock. “Soon,” I said. “You have ten minutes. Or you could get ready now.”

I’m pretty sure he got up.

I went downstairs in a daze. My head was not really quite there and coffee did not help.

My husband is gone again.

Back to normal.

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