The In Between Hours

It is time to write about the area of her life that she wishes could be skipped. Is she dramatizing? Of course. She has such a dislike for the "In-Between Hours" that it's almost impossible for her to avoid feeling so many things during these hours, daily. If six years have taught her anything, it is that she has been behaving like a dramatic character in a novel.

Each morning, as she walks down the stairs and into the kitchen, she senses that even the scout ants are on guard, waiting. It is as if she hears them saying: "Here she comes, be ready for her to drop something!" She forgot these lovely creatures start surveilling the house at the beginning of each Spring. Cinnamon powder is sprinkled all over, but maybe she sprinkled a bit too late, the scouts were in, always managing to appear on the white quartz counter. Disgusted, she cleans the island 100 times, before and after quickly arranging food which she takes into the dining room.

But who knew she would be happy in the mornings again; this ant thing made her grab the essentials from the fridge and lay them out on the dining room table, except for hard boiling the eggs, and making hot tea or coffee, all else can be assembled at the table. Her mind brings flashes of moments like these at the dining room table, with jams, butter, ham, and eggs, all laid out just like when she was little. Of course, she never forgets the peanut butter these days, her mom's favorite. In a way, the ants did her a favor, because she quietly sips on her coffee, while making a sandwich for her mom and her sister.

Dinner is trickier...

Recently, a scout ant managed to appear, having climbed the table in the dining room - how does such a little creature manage to climb so high in such a short time? If she was that tiny in size, it would take her days or months to climb. So, she took this as a sign that the fun of the mornings was about to change. The dining room table quickly became the mail opening and sorting station. "Let's see if you are hungry for mail!" she yells out at them, as if the ants can understand.

She read somewhere that a letter could be written to the ants to ask them to leave, to explain to them why they are not welcome. While writing this letter is not a priority, she constantly tells them they are not welcome in the house. She hardly sees them scouting anymore, but the constant alertness has become a bad habit and is a great portion of her stress.

The writing of letters brought up the thought of daily mail, which she has not managed to open and sort at a steady rhythm. She has the basics covered and scheduled online, but keeps the paper option as backup. And there is always something new that needs to be tended to. She manages to sit and review the paper trail, 3 or 4 months' worth at a time, to catch up on changes. Companies these days love to make changes, constant changes like: "this is increasing starting on...."

Why do people say this type of work, house-work is routine? It is not. And no wonder her 100 schedules never worked.

Something always runs out and something always has to be cleaned. Thank God for online shopping and ordering. During the "in-between hours," her brain is not only bombarded with the "what's for dinner?" question, but with being more aware of what isn't there. The "lack" mentality mindset started taking root in 2020. Working from home meant being hyper-aware of the new environment. Food shopping was no longer a task to notate on a calendar and forget until later. And cleaning wasn't a task scheduled for Saturdays only.

Everything became louder and demanding. She clearly heard the refrigerator's screams each time she opened it, even if just to get a glass of water. On the way to the bathroom, she overheard the clutter in the living room murmuring how she didn't clean it today. She heard spiders in their webs laughing from the corners that she never got to clean because of time. Time? That became the biggest "lack" problem. And even if lack wasn't there, her mind would command her to rearrange furniture because it would look better on the other side of the room.

It was as if each item on the first floor of the home had a voice, a voice that was so insistent that it gave her a stomach ache every morning upon stepping down, ready to begin the in-between-hours.

Until she said, no. No. No. And "shhh."

She finally realized that she wasn't coping—she was surviving a demanding job. If this had been a real job, she would have quit six years ago. She dramatizes again! Quitting a job was never easy for her. She always felt God gave her opportunities, and opportunities should not be wasted. She was the kind of person that would sink with the boat. Later in life, she finally learned that God was giving her opportunities, yes, but opportunities to grow and when necessary to choose her own health and sanity.

The career-work and house-work dividing line had been blurred, even ripped out six years ago. Why had she not applied her professional skills at home? Specifically the "sink or swim" skill. Just like in an office, she had to get to know her colleagues to manage them. Yes, people manage their surroundings so they can work and produce. She thought: "It's time to treat it all as work!"

Yep! Mrs. Refrigerator, she avoids until she has to work with her. And she steers clear of Mr. Couch at all costs. He is not a priority—hell, he is not even in the same department, and he does nothing to support her job description. If he's not happy in his office space, he can move himself! She meets with Mr. Kitchen Sink three times a day; he will pile her up with more work if she dares skip a meeting. Mr. and Mrs. Washer and Dryer, they are so patient. They both know she would love to meet them daily, but, well, these days, they meet when they meet and it's okay. Mrs. Vacuum is always hungry, so she is her sister's partner in crime—they get along beautifully. Miss Mop? She only remembers her once a month. Is she not a priority? Well, she was, but it's not like there are children running through the house daily. And last, the second floor, her sanctuary. It's full of dust and cobwebs—she exaggerates—but that's her home, like a mother, with cozy and warm arms in the mornings. Always welcoming when the "in-between hours" come to an end. It's like coming home from school and finding your mother patiently waiting to pamper you.

She never expected to become a homemaker; it was never in the top 10 of her life plan or even the bottom 10. She can't seem to figure out if her own resistance is causing this type of work to feel like it drags her down, slows her down, and drains her, or if it is truly the worst type of job a human can do. Managing a household is tough work.

A lack mentality... She is suspicious the mindset took hold. How could it not after 6 years of hearing the same demands? But she knows what must be done. She learned early in her life how to recalibrate her mind back to the same forward direction. Recalibrating takes effort, an effort that right now adds to or deepens her constant tiredness. The mind has a tendency to protect by creating scenarios that aren't there. She has to trick her mind, gently nudge her mind, slowly show her mind a better view and focus. But reality is that with overwhelming demands, she lacks the necessary patience for tricks and gentle nudges. While she knows the only truth is the abundance of the universe, a stubborn protective mind can still derail. Each new day she must deliberately choose to view a pile of dishes in the sink as an abundance of food and nourishment, something to be grateful for.

She must go. Sometimes she manages to steal time from the In-Between Hours to write. Yet, the end of the day is not quite near. But the end of today's story is.

Oh! One minor note: she deliberately excluded the most valuable responsibility that comes with the in-between hours, and that is because while she may complain from time to time, caring for one's family is invaluable as well as deeply personal.