We woke up swallowed by fog, hanging low in the trees, forcing an eerie morning light through the shades. Kade shifted in the bed beside me and Ezra kicked his feet madly against the crib sheet. I pinched the swollen bridge of my nose, still sick, still sore, still tired.
I sleep the best just before I'm meant to get out of bed. It seems like my limbs finally relax, fall into the warm bed and tingle when suddenly, Kade is demanding pancakes and Ezra is mumbling, "Mamamamamama." Sometimes, I can't force myself from the pillow. Sometimes, I flip it over and heave a giant sigh, melting into the cool of the cotton. Kade protests, pulling the covers from my head, "Mama, I want breakfast. Pancakes!"
It's not that I'm depressed. I'm just tired.
By the time the coffee is made and the pancakes are on the skillet, I feel better. Groggy, but better. I want to go for a run. I want to go bury myself in the sand of the Sound but I can't. Kade says the clouds are "making more clouds" and Ezra tries to grab at the bowl of batter. We eat and I actually get dressed. Kade coughs and sniffles, having caught my flu bug.
We sing along to Winnie the Pooh. Kade talked me into turning it on, remarking, "I just don't feel good Mama and Pooh Bear is my favorite." I promptly order a plush Pooh Bear on Amazon.
Sometimes retail therapy helps.
My grandma sent a package yesterday. Keep an eye out, she says. I take the boys on a long, long walk through the forest near our house. We stop at the corner store on the way for Tylenol because they're both fevered and then we walk. We walk through the pines, passed the bare blackberry bushes, untangling stroller wheels from ivy vines. Ezra finally falls asleep and Kade crawls from the stroller, finding pine cones and watching crows. I take a long time to get home, weaving up and down streets and imaging the people who live in the homes or what we would do if we lived there. I would paint the house on the corner white and the house by the school would look beautiful with a giant fruit tree in the front yard.
At home, we go to the playground. The neighbor girl asks, again, what church we go to. She demands, again, we try hers out. I try to be polite.
Now, the baby sleeps and an apple fritter bread bakes. I think about my Mama and her love for all things fritter and I sneak into Ezra's room, waking him. I just want to hold him is all.
It's not that I'm depressed. I'm just homesick.