Away from my peace

I'm in my kitchen, it's 6:45 am. Put the kettle on to make tea for the big girl and myself. Making lunches, tidying up messes. I turn the heat on, the house is cold. My thoughts try to organize themselves, random snippets of ideas and imagined bits of conversation float by as I put away last night's dishes. The little one pads down the hall into the too bright light of the kitchen and I have to scoop her up and tuck her back in, whispering that it's still night time, it's too early. Luckily, she's asleep before I get her back to bed.

Throughout all of this I try to keep my thoughts of him positive. He's late for work and not happy. Not a typical morning, but not an unusual one either. I wait patiently for him to go, for my space to be free of his energy. I am not in a bad mood, I am just not wanting an intrusion onto my morning ritual. It is a ritual I enjoy, in a kitchen that I know like the back of my hand. My movements in it are rehearsed and planned and everything is coreographed for efficiency and production. I resent the muffled swearing and the loud opening and closing of doors. I want the house to be quiet as I work.

I am not sorry for his misery, it is entirely his own and I will not step into it, will not share it with him. I am happy to help, to find an unfound item, to check on the time, but not at the risk of inviting his negativity into my morning. So I continue with the counters and the tea and telling the big girl again that it's time to get up. Soon he is out the door, that is the most important thing, mug and books in hand out into the still dark morning. I leave him to wrestle with his own
intrepetations and grievances. Away from my peace.

And the morning is mine again.