Page 4 of Dream with Me

Shyley: What??? No! You’re coming. I know you hate exercise but think of the pancakes afterward.

My eyes moisten with tears again, which is annoying because theyjuststopped.

Me: It’s not that. Troy had to stay over at work, and while Chase might love the pancakes, something tells me he’s not Zen enough to come to yoga.

Shyley: Ugh. Ask Mom. She’ll watch him.

Me: No. Go without me. I have some work to do today anyway. Maybe next time. Please don’t stop inviting me. One of these times, it’ll work out.

Shyley: Boo. But don’t worry, I won’t stop inviting you. You might be my sister, but you’re also my best friend.

When I walk back into the living room, my bud is lying on the floor, snuggled in his blanket, and I’m shocked to see his eyes closed. My baby boy is... napping. I almost don’t believe it. But, sure enough, when I watch him a minute or so, it’s confirmed—he’s asleep.

My adrenaline kicks in, and I take off upstairs to collect dirty laundry. I’d be a fool not to take advantage of this gift of a nap and toss a load of clothes in. When I get to the kids’ bedrooms, I race around like I’m a contestant on one of those adventure scavenger hunt reality television shows. Only instead of visiting cool places and collecting clues, I’m scooping up the clothes my family has discarded. Chelsea and Oliver are my little neat freaks, and all their dirty clothes are put in the hampers in their rooms. But Olivia is a total slob. Her clothes are strewn around her room.

She gets that from her dad.

I finally make it to the bedroom I share with Troy and empty the clothes from the hamper into my laundry basket. Then I pick up the clothes lying on the floor. Right next to the damn hamper. But on the floor. Troy’s clothes.

“How hard is it to put them in the hamper?” I mutter to myself.

Once I’ve got everything loaded in the clothes basket, I head toward the hallway so I can get these in the wash. As I pass by Troy’s side of the bed, my annoyance kicks up a notch. For some reason, my husband leaves all his dirty socks on the floor next to his side of the bed. It’s even more disrespectful than leaving the clothes next to the hamper rather than in it.

I angrily swipe the socks off the floor and slam them into the basket. Well, as much as cotton can be slammed anyway.

Ten minutes later, I’ve checked on Chase, thrown a load of clothes in the wash, and decide to live on the edge, so I make myself another coffee. Planting myself on the ground next to my sleeping boy, I sip my coffee and close my eyes, grateful for the extra time to make a small dent in my to-do list.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to reset my mood and clear my mind. When did I become the woman who cries at the drop of a hat and fills with rage over dirty socks? Sure, I’m tired. Being a mother to four kids will do that to you. My husband has a job that requires him to be away for more than twenty-four hours at a time. Plus, I’m desperately trying to contribute to the family and hold on to my old career aspirations. I do bookkeeping on the side for two small businesses. One is Elladine Bakehouse, owned by the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, Lizzy Lantz. The other is for our friend Emily’s homemade meal service, Emily’s Eats.

Anxiety fills my chest, thinking about work. I’d normally catch up during the day when Troy is home and spending time with Chase. But since he’s not home today, that means I’ll be up late tonight, working after the kids are in bed. Just like that, my mood sours again.

It’s more than work, though. I don’t feelrightanymore. I don’t even know who I am outside of this house and all my responsibilities.

I was once Shannon Donley, the smart girl who was going to take the world by storm and have it all—the career, motherhood, the hot husband. Now I’m Shannon Willson, the frumpy, eternally exhausted mom and part-time employee. Definitely not the CPA boss lady I envisioned. I’m carrying more weight than I like, and I can’t remember the last time I wore makeup or dressed in something other than a T-shirt and basic comfy pants.

To add insult to injury, Troy looks even sexier than he did in high school. He’s grown more attractive over the years while I’ve become... less. Less in so many ways. And that’s just not fair.

I’m lying to myself if I don’t admit that I’ve been feeling off for some time. But I haven’t been able to put my finger on it. I know my energy has been nil, I barely sleep, and my self-esteem is at an all-time low. I miss being attractive and beautiful.

Sure, Troy and I still have sex once in a while, but it’s nowhere near as often as we used to, and we’re usually rushed to fit it in between everything else going on. Either that, or we’re interrupted by one of the younger kids waking up from a bad dream. Regardless, it’s not like when we were younger, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of me. I long for how that felt.

Honestly, I don’t even understand why he’s still here… except out of obligation. He’d never walk away from his family. He’s too heroic for that. But, somewhere along the path we’ve traveled over these more than eighteen years together, we grew apart from each other. If not, life wouldn’t be this hard. Right?

I know I’m not a troll, but if I had to bet, I’d guess my husband isn’t very attracted to me anymore. Why should he be? I’m not the woman he fell in love with. To be fair, I guess I didn’t see the parts of him that were less than sexy before we were married and had so many kids.

The socks on the floor, the lack of communication. The always working...

A tear slips down my cheek.

I’ve been with Troy since I was fifteen years old, and he was only seventeen. We married when I was twenty, then had Olivia shortly after I turned twenty-one, two weeks after I graduated college.

Somewhere along the line, I lost something... I lost me. Who am I kidding? Somewhere along the line, we lost us.

I watch my baby boy sleeping on the floor as the tears flow steadily down my cheeks now. As I fight to keep my crying in check, not wanting to interrupt Chase’s rare nap, I rake my hands through my hair, holding my head in an attempt to calm myself.

That’s when I feel it. The gelatinous, sticky substance on my left hand. I pull my hand from my hair and stare down at the red, lumpy material on my fingers. I can’t stop the sob that escapes from me as I stare at thejellyon my hand. The jelly that was in my hair. When did I become the woman who could walk around for hours with jelly from breakfast in my hair and not notice it?

Who the heck am I?

---