The rhythmicthud thud thudof feet that should not be running in a building this small, accompanied by the unmistakable crash of something that was absolutely not meant to be climbed on.
It smells of peanut butter, wet socks, and moral defeat. As if someone opened a bag of trail mix, spilled half of it, steppedon the raisins, and then tried to fix the problem by adding more snacks instead of fewer.
There’s also a faint undercurrent of smoke that won’t quite leave, no matter how many times I crack a window and let the rain air in.
All while my twins are turning the fishing cabin into what I can only describe as a raccoon run obstacle course.
A couch cushion is balanced vertically against the wall as if it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. A stack of books has been converted into stepping stones across the floor, because apparently, the carpet is lava now.
One of my boots is on the kitchen table. The other is missing.
I don’t want to know where it is.
“Eliza,” I call from the kitchen, trying to keep calm and failing, “why is there a pillow on the light fixture?”
“It’s a cloud!” she yells back.
I peer around the corner and confirm that, yes, she has somehow wedged a couch pillow between the ceiling beam and the hanging lamp. I have no idea how she got it up there. I’m both impressed and deeply concerned.
“Daddy,” Caleb adds helpfully, standing on the arm of the couch, “I’m a storm.”
Of course you are, buddy.
The couch creaks ominously under his feet. The cabin creaks in solidarity.
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose the way the parenting book I never finished suggested. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Picture a calm place. Picture a beach. Picture literally anywhere that doesn’t involve crumbs in my socks.
The rain taps steadily against the roof, a soft, relentless drumming that should be soothing but isn’t quite there yet. The kind of rain that sounds hopeful, doing important work outthere, but hasn’t fully convinced my nerves that the danger has passed.
The walls feel closer than they did yesterday. The ceiling lower. Even the air feels crowded, buzzing with noise and movement and energy that has nowhere to go.
I love my kids. I would absolutely commit crimes for these kids.
But if I don’t get them outside soon, one of us is going to snap, and statistically speaking, it’s probably going to be me.
I open my eyes just in time to see Eliza leap from the couch toward the bookshelf stepping stones, arms outstretched, shouting, “Wheee!”
“Okay!” I say brightly, because I’m nothing if not committed to pretending I have control over my life. “New rule! Feet on the floor!”
They freeze. Look at me.
Then both of them lift one foot and hover it an inch above the carpet.
I stare at them.
They grin.
I sigh and lean back against the counter, rubbing a hand over my face.
I haven’t been this tired in a long time. Not physically (though yeah, that too), but the kind of tired that comes from being on edge for days, from sleeping lightly, from listening to wind and wondering if it’s going to change its mind again.
And underneath all of that, threaded through everything as a live wire, is Abilene.
Her face. Her voice. The way she looked last night, all firelight and softness and heat that I absolutely should not be thinking about while my kids are reenacting weather patterns six feet away from me.
Cabin fever isn’t just about the walls closing in. It’s about your thoughts having nowhere to go.
