Counting

I’ve been spending my days counting.

Counting down until Passover. Counting how many meals to plan for the holiday and how much of each ingredient I need. Counting ways to make this holiday more than just numbers—trying to find the meaning.

Counting guests and invitations and kippot. Counting on my daughter to help me find the joy and pride in this milestone, when right now, it all seems to come down to numbers.

Counting mg of Tylenol given to the teen and hoping her liver outlasts the back pain.  Counting on her future to have made all of this worth it. Counting on the love of my friends and family, who pulled us through.

Counting words, both good and bad, and pages and scenes and chapters to get my manuscript ready for submission, and wondering if it’s any good, or whether it even matters. Counting on my critique partners to understand, when no one else does.

Counting down to an auction, counting money, counting volunteers and realizing how little there are of both. Counting on my ability to hide my own fears about pulling this off from those around me and pretending “It will be fine.”

Counting sunny days and sunshine and being thankful that winter is over. Even though I hate complaining about weather.

Counting calories and numbers on a scale and knowing they’re only numbers. Remembering to stop counting in front of my daughters, because they don’t need my disorders.

Counting the hours and minutes in a day and trying to get everything done before the bus pulls up and the lives around me take precedence. And digging deep for a smile, no matter how tired I may be.

I’ve been spending my days counting, and I need to stop.