It is 10 am on Saturday morning and we are getting ready to go out.
My daughter who grew up to be an outspoken girl doesn’t agree with the cloths she needs to wear.
My son with his ever-lasting happiness jumps on the bed with joyful shrieking that vibrates in my head so hard my knees get soft.
I am too sensitive to sounds, I observe for the third time this week. My daughter of seven, keeps repeating her choices and reasons and my wise husband steps quickly into the shower.
We are late.
My son is shouting on the bed, not dressed up yet. My daughter comes closer to me to be sure I get her argument and the fact that she is right.
The fact that I didn’t send the production mail last night, floats in my head, a flash reminder to call the guitarist, bass player, the assistant and my partner.
Suddenly I have no place to hold all of it in, my head is full of penetrating sounds and I am over exhausted.
My daughter starts to cry for not getting the response she needs, and my beloved does not hear anything under the water.
My knees collapse, I bury my head on the pillow on the floor and break down.
I can’t stop crying.
Both my children come to comfort me and I can’t hide myself. In the back of my head I have a discussion about “crying in front of the children”.
‘I have an honesty policy’ I remind myself, ‘I don’t hide my feelings’.
My mother always went to cry in secret. I was very tuned to my mother and I felt her sorrow even when she was pretending nothing was wrong. It did not install any confidence or relief in me.
My son holds my head as if he is giving me healing with his eyes closed, and my daughter runs to tell papa that mama is crying.
I am still choking and wondering about my state of mind. I feel in the twilight zone, my menstruation is late, and I am never late. Clouds of fear are floating in my head, saying my life would be over.
The discussion in my head now asks: How are we suppose to raise children with all those hormones flying about?
What would I do if I am with child? Can I handle another traumatic birth? Can I survive another cesarean section? Again two years of body and soul busy with running a marathon? Would my creative life be over or is it just fear?
My daughter squeezes me tight and I am finally smiling at them. When they feel the storm is over they both get dressed and my daughter tells papa who joins us that she made mama cry.
“It was not you”, I smile at her.
“Do you know the story of the camel that walked in the desert with too much baggage on his back?”
My daughter seems interested.
“Well, then came a little piece of straw flying in the wind…”