She had the evil thought, in the moments before the alarm was ready to go off, that if it was just her she'd get a half hour more sleep. One eye barely open and she could see the numbers on the alarm clock inching toward the braying disruption that was the alarm.
At the sound she would pull herself from the bed, the warmth of the covers, sweet cocoon and into the chill morning air. She walked slowly to the kitchen and started the coffee, made oatmeal for Izzy, leaned over the counter and hugged herself, half asleep.
Time ticked away so fast in the morning, the light seeping into the sky, crawling across the living room rug. She'd go in and wake up her daughter, her little face soft and warm, little eyes opening.
"Come on, honey. Breakfast," Mia said with more cheer than she felt. What she felt was the overwhelming tiredness of always going, always forcing herself to go. To get up, to get Izzy ready, to drop her off at daycare, going to school, cheerleading, doing homework, talking to people, picking up Isabella, picking up her mother at work. Some days just talking to people was too much, their mouths moving and nothing approaching sense coming out.
Stepping into the shower, wishing she could just curl up in the hot spray and go to sleep. Thinking of her cup of steaming coffee, the only thing capable of getting her moving. Laying out the clothes for Izzy and just hoping she wouldn't complain, "I don't like this color, this makes me look fat," which brings a whole new set of worries. Her daughter was three! Already she was thinking of looking fat, the media machine cranked to full volume so that three year olds had self esteem issues and fat thighs. Mia would shake her head, her long dark hair shaking around her round cheeks. In those instances she wondered how she would be able to do this. How could she guide her daughter through this maze she didn't fully understand herself?
But it was easy to set such thought aside in the avalanche of things she had to do. Fill out the daycare paperwork, do her homework, apply to colleges, talk to boys, flirt but not too much, listen to her mother's complaints, read Izzy stories, walk down the halls at school with her head held high, cook supper, make snacks, shield her daughter from the sinister influences seeping so steadily in.
By the time she left the house she felt like she had lived an entire day and sometimes she was ready to crawl into the sheets of her bed again. Clutching her travel coffee mug like a life raft, sipping every so often like a bird in a feeder, holding Izzy's sticky little hand, holding her book bag with her shoulders, the straps weighing her down. Walking and trying not to slip on her high heels, trying not to smudge her make-up, trying not to fall.
"Bye. I love you," she says to Izzy every morning at daycare, glancing beyond her daughter's little head to the drawings on colored paper hanging up on partition walls, static bursts of color, exploding lines and sometimes she can make out dinosaurs and princesses and dragons and castles and race cars and anime dolls but sometimes she can make out nothing at all.
Then she heads up the stone steps to Degrassi, the double glass doors reflecting the day and herself back at her, and she sees a tired 17 year old, a weary 17 year old. And she shakes her head at her reflection and touches her hand to her reflection's cool hand and goes inside.
In the school sounds echo off the lockers in the hallway, and she can hear the mean voices of the jocks and the other cheerleaders, the meek voices of the science nerds. Everyone is clearly labeled for easy identification. She shutters to think of the peeling label on her little jar. 'Teenage mother' 'Slut' 'Screw up'. The labels never have room for any of the positive things. She know this. 'Drug addict', 'Victim', 'Crazy', 'Nerd'. Whatever. She's usually too tired to care.
Each teacher talks about everything they have to do as if this class is the only thing in their whole lives, like her life is devoted to geology. She's lucky if she can glance at the important points at the end of the chapters before she takes the test. She's lucky if she remembers when the test is. Some days she can actually feel herself falling behind.