My Busy Day
“Mommy, look!” cried my daughter, Darla, pointing to a chicken hawk soaring through the air. “Uh huh,” I murmured, driving, lost in thought about the tight schedule of my day. Disappointment filled her face. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart?” I asked, entirely dense. “Nothing,” my seven-year-old said. The moment was gone. Near home, we slowed to search for the albino deer that comes out from behind the thick mass of trees in the early evening. She was nowhere to be seen. “Tonight, she has too many things to do,” I said. Dinner, baths and phone calls filled the hours until bedtime. “Come on, Darla, time for bed!” She raced past me up the stairs. Tired, I kissed her on the cheek, said prayers and tucked her in. “Mom, I forgot to give you something!” she said. My patience was gone. “Give it to me in the morning,” I said, but she shook her head. “You won’t have time in the morning!” she retorted. “I’ll take time,” I answered defensively. Sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, time flowed through my fingers like sand in an hourglass, never enough. Not enough for her, for my husband, and not enough for me. She wasn’t ready to give up yet. She wrinkled her freckled little nose in anger and swiped away her chestnut brown
;
