I’m straddling the boundary of healthy and sick. Fortunately, I am losing my voice. That will likely prove helpful at work tomorrow since I’m second in line to answer the phones. Unfortunately, my throat hurts. I’m not a big fan of pain, although by the measure I use when something hurts (labor) it’s practically nothing. Fortunately, I don’t have a fever. Fever slays me, muddies my thoughts, lands me flat in bed.
Unfortunately, I can still hear every little goddamn noise that reverberates on the walls of this house. This teensy tiny house is a veritable conductor of sound. I live in nearly constant noise pollution. Long ago, we got rid of the old fridge that sounded like it was getting ready to blast off every time the motor kicked in. Then I went and birthed a kid who now who has an affinity for putting every nerve in my body on absolute edge all the time. When he’s angry, he likes to scream. I’m not talking a crying scream, but a red-in-the-face-fuck-you-world sort of scream that makes your head throb. I’m pretty sure he can be heard in at least four states.
Tonight I caught myself muttering something about selling him to the gypsies…and about gagged. So old fashioned, that remark. I’d rather set him out back and see how he fares in the cold dark of our rural environs. Go live with the coyotes! I want to scream back at him. Alternately, I want to quietly put on my coat, step into my vintage Sorels, and start walking. Walk until my legs give out from beneath me.
Anything but face a raging two-year old in our house that echoes with absolute psychosis tonight.
And tonight wasn’t as insane as some.
