Mom

She walks in the door, kicking off shoes, dropping purse, and putting hair up simultaneously, while checking on her minions as she goes.

Weariness settles in her bones like the caked on lasagna crust from the three day old dirty pan in the sink. “We’ll soak it one more day,” she says.

She wears her hair up at home because vanity is only for selfies, work, and the occasional night out. Hair up, soft pants, no bra; the uniform is complete.

Putting her feet up, “I deserve this,” she says, as she turns on reruns for 4 hours (that was only supposed to be one).

Small victories are meals made at home that have two components and an element of health, “tonight I made pork loin & veggies: go me!” she cheers.

At night while the kids are sleeping she tries to be entertained by the tv & her Internet-tethered phone and is often disappointed.

Time to go to bed, she reckons, and she’s wondering if she should talk to God tonight, or will her mind allow her to sleep.

To sleep dreamless nights of sweet oblivion, resetting for the marathon of one more day.

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