I sit in one dining room chair, my feet under the table and up on another, warm in yesterday’s workout clothes (that may or may not have seen a workout yesterday), the smell of a breakfast burrito and coffee losing steam and a classical song on Little Einsteins gaining it.
This is my morning, a few times a week, while the two little blondies occupy themselves (with help sometimes, from the box on the wall) and I catch up with the outside world.
It’s lonely out here. Surrounded by cornfields and a rural highway, only a scattering of other houses within view. Sometimes, the people in my computer are the only ones I talk to about things other than strawberry milk and Bubble Guppies until the bus pulls up to the driveway and conversations turn to spelling tests and Minecraft. Then dinner, and work, and bedtime.
I used to talk to adults regularly. I used to see them and chat about music and the weekend and what we would do when this class was through or the shift was over. These days, it’s a couple of people, once in a while, when logistics and money and time are figured out. When a lunch is planned or a random invitation for an event can actually be accepted.
I don’t miss the days of waking up in the morning and getting dressed for work, or class. I would miss the two blondies singing along with Mickey Mouse and the four long legs running off the steps of the bus. I wouldn’t trade the diapers and dishes and another episode of Doc McStuffins for stories of last night’s concert and lunch at the coffee shop.
But it is lonely.
I chug the last of my cold coffee and make my way into the kitchen for another cup.