today in a bitter, sweet-less nutshell.

I am raising these newborn twins, these crying messes of pretty, dark hair and few words and sprightly glances. Everything is new to them: the leather on the couches, the cold air, wood banisters. They don't like spaghetti and they keep asking to hold my hand.

And tonight I pulled strands of hair into a bun and sank my weak knees against the hard black stovetop with pots and noodles and red sauce falling over everything. I got paint on the counter and tried to scrub it off, and I texted you in the meantime while the kids went outside to play.

And then I ran them all a bath, but the water was "too hot" and apparently water is waste-able where they're from.

Now I'm listening to Drunk in Love because I just wiped this counter spotless and ran three new baths before finally getting the temperature right. The dishwasher isn't working and I wish you were here to make a mess out of it with me.  And tomorrow I have to watch their performance at the high school, and I don't have a car but somehow I'm driving carpool.

I pushed loose strands from my eyes with one dry hand and the other submerged in hot water, while the blonde one in her puffy coat and bare legs threw a tantrum at the back door and they all braved the wind to jump on the tramp.  And left me with a trail of post-winter grass on the carpet, and a mudroom filled with bright coats and discolored boots. 

I vacuumed that room twice today.

And now they're sleeping and I'm cross-legged on the tile floor of this steamy bathroom in his old shirt with wet hair, a wall away from Clair de Lune and the only boy that didn't ask for dinner tonight. And whenever it starts playing I push my head back against the door and pretend like I'm falling asleep too. 

And then I die.

There's death, for you.