But why a dream about someone else’s kid throwing up on me?

The plunk, plunk, plunk of the leaky faucet.

Celery juice.

I promise them that it’s the last hot day they’ll have to walk home. And it’s too bad the scooter was apparently stolen too so the walk will feel extraordinarily long.

She’s dancing in her car. I am not. I am catching up on Bardstown and tearing up listening to the story. I think of how he asks me why I listen to this and I tell him it’s like listening to a movie, but this movie is true.

I get too lost in the details sometimes.

Yeah. Like, this is work.

I forgot the papers. I walk across the gravel in the wedge booties in the heat. I can feel sweat accumulating. I’m going to be late picking him up. I don’t know how I can do this. How am I supposed to do this? I forgot my computer. Back again. I’m going to be late. I have being late. How are we supposed to do this?

Dazed.

I tell him that I will show him how to clean the toilets. And then he can clean the mirrors and the countertops. That I might throw in some dusting of the baseboards too. We’ll see if that helps.

I think back to the drive home and how dazed I was. I couldn’t even hear the story—and I really wanted to hear the story because I really do love Mavis Gallant—but all I could think about and feel was heavy overwhelm. I am still feeling it. And I am hoping it will lift soon.

I tell him that it’s not just the shift in the routine but my brain is so full with new information. I am learning a lot. A lot. And that in itself is exhausting.