apples for tasting @ Riley's Farm, 18-55mm
I pull up to the stoplight in the fading light of a long, hard day. I'm utterly spent and there are still two hours before the kids' bedtime.
The sky is full of billowy, gray clouds and it's cold outside. Fall has arrived. It's beautiful.
Suddenly, my shoulders are shaking uncontrollably and the tears are falling fast and hot.
It's nothing. And it's everything.
It's the thorn I stepped on this morning because I forgot to sweep the entry-way after the kids tracked in dirt, thistle and thorns from the pumpkin patch. It's the twins who think running when I say STOP is funny.
It's the darn insurance company that keeps mistakenly sending me bills for the twins' NICU stay.
It's the fact that I can't use the restroom alone because 30 seconds later, the twins have grabbed purple crayons and scribbled all over Matt's Bible.
It's stupid stuff. And it's that I'm tired and my back has been hurting for weeks.
"You put up with pain until it's unbearable," the chiropractor tells me.
How does he know that?
But he's right. And I wonder if that's something I should talk about with my therapist.
I pull into the driveway and shut off the car. The house is warm and bright. Through the window I can see Matt washing dishes in the kitchen.
My face must tell the story because he takes me in his arms and says softly, "I'm so glad you're here. Did you know that you're my haven in this weary world?"
I think I'm going to start crying again and he tells me to go take a hot shower.
I do.
And when I open my dresser drawer, I find clean jammies folded and tucked neatly away. He didn't just do the dinner dishes, he did my laundry, too.
Somehow, that makes everything all better.
