When the moon is full, it’s high tide in your brain.

As I drove myself and the dog home from dropping the boy off at summer day camp (where they create 4th of July art, squirt water at each other, learn how to play Red Rover and build Lego creations all before lunch), I was engulfed by a vision—of myself. I reclined on the living room couch in a summer nightdress and I just knew I was freshly showered. Night stuffs melted into my skin so that I glowed (pleasantly) in the lamplight as I typed on the laptop, the dog snoozed nearby on his bed, a cat was stretched along the back of the sofa, a glass of wine (red, recent gift from my father-in-law and useful for counteracting any full moon’s high tide in the brain) was perched on the coffee table. In my vision, I worked with a smile on my face as the boy snoozed in his bed, his dad passed out next to him—a common occurence during storytime—the house open-ish, cool night air roaming the rooms; crickets, peace. Ah, I thought. Me in 12 hours.

…

The dog arrived to collapse, but I was gagging on the smell of cat pee and cleared the room of pets so I could stick my face to the floor and sniff without the shedders rushing over to investigate. As I sniffed, my husband emerged from our son’s room, staggered to all open doors and windows and shut them. I’m freezing, he protested and I reminded him (absolutely no rational basis for this reminder) that he was freezing because he was in the pool with the boy for almost 2 hours prior to bathtime—during which a succession of mini-meltdowns occured, the new cat attacked our old cat, I first smelled the cat pee, and the fire alarm sounded because everyone who lives here forgot to turn off the heat under the kettle, which has forgotten how to sing, and a tiny piece of pancake which must have flown off the griddle this morning ignited, flaming impressively before becoming the charred bit I deposited into the trash.

… 

I am concave on the couch, in the same running shorts and shirt I attempted yoga poses in this morning. My hairclip has dematerialized, the source of the cat pee remains undiscovered, something cobalt stripes my left arm and I’m probably entering peri-menopause because all I feel is hot, hot, hot and not in a fancy way. Hup! Wait! Look! There is the glass of red wine. Why don’t I take a sip and make a tiny fraction of the morning’s vision a reality. I don’t hear any crickets—but we do own our house. The moon is full! Old blank page, scratched sequin, crushed shell, spectacular misprint…

If I don’t take a shower now, I may never write again.