Stacie Sherman

I woke up Tuesday morning ahead of my 6:30 a.m. alarm. I got out of bed, wandered into the bathroom and took a shower. Then I glanced at my clock.

2:30 a.m.

I can’t make this stuff up.

So I took myself, my towel and my wet head of hair back to bed and back to sleep.

Four hours later, my husband nudged me to tell me that my alarm was ringing. When I told him what happened at 2:30, he said I must have been dreaming. But as I lifted my head, I noticed my hair was damp, and the towel I had dried it off with was  on the floor next to my bed.

Not a dream. This is my life. Here is my day.

An hour later I am fully dressed for work, my car is packed with my stuff and Bree’s, and I’m nudging her awake so that I can get her clean and dressed, keep her away from any food or drink and get her in the car to take her for bloodwork.

She gets in the car, and asks me for her usual gum. “No,” I tell her. Again, she presses the GUM button on her iPad. “No, baby,” I tell her. “You have to wait.”  Then I put the car in reverse. The look she is giving me is part-incredulous, part-teenage brat, part-pre-Sybil.

We get to the lab and halle-freaking-lujah we are the first ones there. We fill out the paperwork. She starts asking me for GUM, a DRINK, GUM, GUM, GUM, as I answer the lady’s questions. She whines a little, punches her legs once, then stares at me. “You’ve got to wait, baby,” I say, rubbing her leg.

Minutes later we are called back, and with me holding her arm down and sweet-talking her, the nice nurse and I get her blood drawn and we are out the door minutes later. I stop at McDonald’s to reward her with some greasy breakfast. Then I drop her off at school and race to work, arriving 10 minutes late.

Then work begins For the next seven hours I am at my computer, editing stories and headlines, sending emails, on conference calls, talking with employees, prepping for meetings. I break only for the bathroom and to grab water and a salad.

I am home by 4:45, after a stop at the pharmacy to pick her some meds for Bree. My son is standing there with his guitar in the garage, waiting for me as I pull up so he can tell me about his day at college. I go over his homework assignments with him to make sure he’s keeping up to date. We talk about working on his term paper in a few days, another essay, his plans with his friends, and then he goes upstairs to get ready for work. I make him some pizza bagels and boil some water for Bree’s pasta as I wait for her bus to drop her off.

Bree gets home with a smile and  good report from her teachers, so I serve her dinner, give her meds and a drink while she hangs in the kitchen with me and her iPad. My husband is away on business, so I feed the dog and heat myself some soup and sit near her.

My son leaves for work as a busboy at the restaurant not too far away. Bree heads upstairs to her room. I follow, find her naked and wanting to take a bath. It’s too early to take a bath. If she takes a bath at 6, she will want to sleep at 7. So I delay her, put on a video for her, wander into my room to change out of my work clothes and put away the pile of clean laundry waiting for me.

About 45 minutes later, Bree’s asking me for a bath, and I give in. She is cranky, and I’m hoping the bath relaxes her enough for her to cheer up, but not enough to make her want to sleep. I help her in the bath, and then into her pajamas. She watches another video on her bedroom TV, then comes back downstairs with me for another snack, another video on her iPad.

After awhile she joins me on the couch, where she grabs my phone and finds something to watch as I try to catch up on my shows. A few minutes later, she goes to the bathroom. I follow.

Then she goes Sybil on me.

We are in the bathroom, she is on the toilet. She looks up, screams and grabs my one hand so hard I have to whack her to get her to let go. She drops to the floor on her already-black-and-blue knees.

I let myself out of the bathroom, shut the door behind me, as she wails and cries. That’s not easy to do. But I stay calm, go back and sit on the couch and let her get it out of her system. I am mad at her for hurting me. I never get that. How can you hurt the person that loves you the most. But then again, that’s what we do, don’t we.

Minutes pass, then she comes out of the bathroom, calmer. She comes to stand next to me, half-dressed. I keep watching TV. She makes noises. “Use your computer,” I tell her, and she does. “I want to go to sleep.” I get up to give her medicine. She is standing there, eyeing me up, and she can tell I’m upset with her. She starts to weep a little bit, and that tears me up. I bring her into my arms, and kiss her hair, rub her back, tell her I love her. Then I bring her upstairs and help her to bed.

So where does my day begin and where does it end? I can’t tell you. Even now, I’m sitting here typing away, when I should be relaxing, or sleeping. I don’t know how to relax. I feel like I can never relax. There’s always something I want to be doing.  The past year or so has been super-hectic with work, Cam at college, Brielle and her anger.

I’m definitely in over my head. Way over my head. And yet I don’t stop. Something keeps pushing me to add more tasks to my day. I’m on a TV show now once a month. I’m giving talks at my alma mater. I’m scheduling meetings I really don’t have the time to take. I’m taking on tasks at my daughter’s school, tasks at work, assigning myself stories I have no time to write.

And, oh yeah, I just joined a gym.

This story has no conclusion.  It’s just another day.