To The Things I Wish Had a Snooze Alarm

Dinnertime. Not that dinnertime isn’t flexible; it is. Maybe I should say my hunger. at 5:30 or 6:00 it’s clear I can’t wait much longer, but I would like to get one more thing off my day’s checklist: a short run, a load of laundry folded, walk the dog. One of those essential things that makes the day feel complete. 20 more minutes before I start.

Snooze on

Sunrise. I can hit the snooze button for myself, but I would prefer one for the actual sunrise. Morning dark is full of promise, all the hours seem enough. But when the sun begins to rise, when it reaches the tops of the trees, I begin to wonder. I would like just one more handful of believing there’s plenty of time.

The dog’s urgent need to go outside. Otty can wait, but Indy, when she needs to go out, there’s no waiting. She hops around as if the floor hurts her paws; she yelps and cries. Two seconds ago she was sound asleep and now I have to drop everything, get up and let her out. No slow build. No gradual increase. I would like to tap her head and  put her back to bed.

Arthritis. It’s not that bad yet. But every year it shows up again in a new joint. My back one year. My fingers. This year it was my foot. The pain right now is just a hint, just a little reminder during some days that not all is well. But I can imagine what’s coming in 20 years, 30 years. I would like a full decade between me and whatever else will ache.

The day we will move out of this house. I’m looking forward to the moving, the smaller space, less upkeep. I’m tired of yard work and living on multiple floors. I’m not really a house person. I have a romance with old third floor walk-ups and zero-lot-line condos. I don’t like being responsible for this space. Something about having a kid made it seem like the right thing to do, but now, I’m over it. But that means that someday I will have to deal with the crappy floors, the roof, the fence in the backyard, the crack in the attic wall.

The day Whit drives alone for the first time. I want to turn to him, the way my dad turned to me on the very first day I ever drove a car alone, and ask him to go to the store for some milk. Like my dad, I won’t need it, but maybe, like me, Whit will need a little push to get out there. No place far and nothing urgent. But that moment, when he says, “Alright, Mom” and grabs the keys off the hook by the back door. That moment when he rounds the corner and I hear the back screen door bounce a little against the frame behind him. I hear the car pull out of the drive. That moment? Set the clock back just one more second on that one.