I still haven't done that day in my 10-year-old life I promised nightwraith17

Here goes.

A hypothetical day in July 2010

~ 8:00 a.m. I wake up, hop out of bed, run out to the kitchen and put my glasses on. We all kept our glasses in the kitchen drawer for reasons I'm not entirely sure. Let's say breakfast is oatmeal. I load mine with peanut butter and slurp it down with a general lack of interest. Food enjoyment has never been my strong point.

9:30 a.m. Time for my job. We rotate every month -- washing dishes, sweeping the kitchen, vacuuming the carpet. My favorite months are the vacuuming months. I pick up the living-room with zest and roll the vacuum around with a sense of competency, watching it make strips of lighter and darker green on the carpet. The buzz fills my ears; I'm in my own world. I can sing under my breath. I think up rhymes. I assume the imaginary identity of an evil villain who promises everyone, "If you dare look at me you'll die!" It's the only promise anyone can trust him to keep. I play this game regularly while vacuuming.

10:00 a.m. I've finished vacuuming and zip downstairs to do the laundry. Ever since Mommy had baby Hope, she's been recovering and can't climb stairs yet. I do all the laundry -- two loads a day, one of clothes and one of Hope's cloth diapers, yellowed with odorous stains. In fact, I do it so regularly that lately I've been wearing only two outfits. I feel duly proud of myself. (Present me: *sobs*)

10:20 a.m. The whole day awaits. I may play in the toy area in the basement (a small carpeted region where we kept most of our toys and some craft materials). Maybe I play with my jacks that I got for a Christmas present last year. I probably beg to hold Hope at some point.

~ 12:00 p.m. Lunch. Sandwich material is the norm. I devour mine. "Mommy, can I play outside?"

"Yes, you may play outside."

A small internal dialogue occurs within myself, arguing whether I should have said "may I play outside" or whether the informal situation and obvious colloquialism carried the case for "can". I feel that "can" was justified but that I ought perhaps to cultivate a habit of the proper "may".

All the other kids, of course, follow me outside. Outside is a group activity.

The twins play in the sandbox, while I ride my bike around the house, back to front, front to back, exhilarated by the feeling of power as I pump hard up the slight incline before the drive. Peace and Benjamin are playing together, probably pretending to be Chinese babies again.

"Let's swing, Mercy."

We play the swinging game. We swing higher and higher and higher until the swings float off their hinges and up into the clouds, and when we finally stop pumping we drift to earth in a different world. We acquire horses in this world, and ride them in races around cheering tracks, winning every single one (we enter in different races, of course). We enter pole-vaulting contests (a.k.a. we leap over a flowerbed with the dubious aid of a willow switch). We buy our dream possessions in our favorite colors. Right now mine are bright crimsony pink and pale wintergreen.

4:00 p.m. I see my next-door neighbor A, about my age, out with her dad in her yard. She comes over often and plays with us. She runs over and we talk for a minute before she goes back to the house. I go inside and pick up a story -- probably Octavine and the Wolf of Waterby -- and attack pen with paper. This is the second draft of Octavine, I tell Mommy, and it is Very Good. So much better than the first draft. Also, the first draft only got to chapter 6, and this one is already on 7! She seems appreciative but distracted.

~ 6:00 p.m. Suppertime. Probably something that I with my picky tastes don't like. After supper we have devotions, if Daddy is home.

7:00 p.m. I lie in bed and read, or scribble in another story draft.

~9:00 p.m. I can't remember exactly what lights-out was around this time. Somewhere from 8:30 to 9:30. I get into PJs, brush my teeth, and snuggle down in bed. Mercy, Peace, Charity, and I are in the same room. My mom comes in and sings "Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us" to us all. Daddy's in the boys' room, and I hear his firm tread coming down the hall as Mommy finishes. He comes in and we pray together: first he asks us what we want to thank God for, and then we pray individually with our thanksgivings and requests, and close with Our Father Who Art in Heaven. He leans over me, kisses me good-night. I lean up and kiss his cheek -- smooth on Sundays, rough in the middle of the week, bristly on Saturdays.

I say a prayer quietly to myself, that God will not let me have any bad dreams tonight. I dread nightmares. I haven't had any since starting to pray regularly about it. God answers prayer. The humbling, comforting knowledge hums warmly in my heart as I drift off to sleep.

Day's over.

***

I picked July 2010 because it was soon after my sister's birth and I remembered a lot of things relating to that time. A school day would have been slightly different, but the basics remain the same.