Alarm rings.  Reaching, stretching, groping in the darkness.  Mumbling, grumbling, whining.  I find the phone alarm; blindly push buttons to silence…for a few minutes.  Alarm rings; I cry; I whine, like a baby.  Bang my fingers into the phone to silence.  Pulling myself to a sitting position, legs propped on the side of the bed.  My head is in my hands; I moan.  I’m tired.  Stomp.  My feet are on the floor; I stamp and stumble; I bend over half way and sweep my arms back and forth in the half-light; searching for my slippers.  Whine.  Caleb sits up; he reaches out, firmly places his hands on my shoulders.  “Why do you need to be up this early?”  “I HAVE to get stuff done before work!  The house is a MESS!!” I whine.  Come back to bed.  He is firm.  His voice gives no room for argument.  I’m too tired to argue anyway.  I lay down, in his arms, next to him.  I sleep.

An hour later, I wake up refreshed.  I get ready for work; he quietly steps downstairs to make my breakfast and get my lunch ready.  On the mornings he is home and I go to work, he always makes my breakfast.  “What do you want this morning?”  “Oh, oatmeal, I think…with STRrrrrAWBERRIES!” I reply, excited about food.  I am dressed, coifed and made up, ready to face the day.  I make coffee.  The house is a mess, but I am rested.  He jokes about my grumpiness earlier.  I smile; I can laugh, now…  He takes my bags and lunch and purses and various and assundry paraphernaila to the car.  I leave.  It’s Wednesday, filled with stuff, busy, exhausting in its constant rush.  I will not have a break until 8:30 that evening.  So much to do…

I drive home to fix supper.  One hour, that is all to eat, get ready and leave.  Hurry.  I’m home.  Home to vaccuum marks in the carpet.  Get supper, wash dishes.  He drys.  Get ready to leave.  I see two laundry baskets of freshly washed clothes sit by the door, ready for the laundromat’s dryers.  We drive to church.  Awana; kids; no time for thought.  A call.  “Call me when you’re ready, I’ll meet you at the door.”  It had been raining; he pulled the car up.  I slide in.  Time for the laundromat.  “It’s done,” says he.  We drive home…

Home.  Relax.  The day is over.  Seeing my surroundings for the first time that day.  The bathroom door is back up.  The light switch plates are on.  The ceiling trim is finished.  The siding is sealed.  The blanket on the couch is folded.  We sit and watch a show; he holds me.

Next day I set out early to garage sale.  The gas tank was on empty yesterday.  I look down.  It’s filled.