Hailstorms, and the Illusion of Routine

The weather had been behaving strangely for weeks, and everybody seemed to have a different opinion about it. One application promised sunshine, another storms, another wind. Even Fruitloop laughed about it because she remembered I’d been checking the forecast almost obsessively before the flea market. We only finished preparing the car at nine in the evening the Wednesday before because we still didn’t know if we would even go. The boxes stood in the hallway for days already, clothes folded carefully, small things wrapped in newspaper, everything waiting for a decision nobody could really make.

In the end we woke up at five in the morning anyway.

That early hour always feels strange to me. The house still dark, the air cold enough that your hands stay stiff for a while, the sound of the coffee machine much louder than normal. My husband loaded the last things into the car while I stood there holding my warm cup with both hands. I remember thinking maybe the weather would surprise us and become beautiful after all.

It was actually fine until around eleven.

Then suddenly hail.

Not even a little bit. Real hail. Loud on the roof of the car, bouncing everywhere, people running with plastic sheets and blankets trying to save their things. But my husband had prepared everything very well. We had protection ready for the clothes and boxes, so we covered everything quickly and sat inside the car waiting for it to pass. The windows fogged a little from our breathing. Afterward the weather kept changing every few minutes — a little sun, then wind, then rain again. One of those days where you never fully relax because you keep watching the sky.

Still, for the weather we had, I was satisfied. I sold enough. Maybe not extraordinary, but enough that I came home feeling it had been worth waking up at five.

And yes, I got my sausage.

That part made me happy because normally this flea market is extremely popular and the queue for food is endless. But because the weather scared people away, I waited less than five minutes. No champagne this year though. Only warm coffee and cappuccino because honestly it was too cold for anything festive. Maybe next year.

Although there probably will not be another flea market before next year anyway. I only do one every year. The places are limited, and people react immediately when invitations open. It becomes almost competitive.

Now suddenly the weather is going in the opposite direction. Twenty-four degrees, then twenty-nine, and next week they already announce thirty-five. It feels like we no longer have a real spring. You move directly from autumn into summer without any gentle middle.

Fruitloop said it was similar there too, except they had rain first and now cooler weather again. Meanwhile my calendar is becoming fuller because Pentecost is coming, and in the city next to our village they have one of the most famous celebrations in the region. Every year the streets fill with music groups playing outside, people eating at long tables, teenagers everywhere around the carousels, tourists arriving from Germany, and families walking slowly through town in traditional costumes. The whole place smells like grilled food and beer and warm pavement after sunset.

I already have plans almost every evening.

On Friday I’ll go to a restaurant with my sister-in-law. After that we considered going to a party with a DJ, but I’m not completely convinced because my daughters will probably be there too, and I can already imagine their faces if they see me dancing somewhere. Fruitloop joked we should pretend not to know each other if that happens. Honestly, maybe that is the best solution.

Saturday evening we’ll go again for a rock group, Sunday there are guests for lunch, and afterward we return to the celebration in the evening. It’s only about ten kilometers away, but still too far to walk. Luckily we know some places where parking is possible because otherwise it becomes impossible during the festival.

I was already tired just describing the weekend.

At the same time, I like routines. Fruitloop started talking about breaking routines through playfulness, making ordinary things feel lighter somehow, but I realized while we spoke that I am somebody who likes structure very much. I like knowing what comes next. Breakfast, work, lunch, dinner. There’s comfort in repetition.

But when you have teenagers, routine is mostly an illusion anyway.

My youngest daughter is preparing for her Baccalaureate exams now. They stopped classes for a few days so the students can prepare oral exams, and naturally I thought maybe she could help a little at home. But according to her, she has absolutely no time. This after arriving home at one in the morning and spending half the next day in bed scrolling on her phone.

Sometimes I look at her and feel exhausted before we even start talking.

She wants a summer job at a bakery because the hours are from six in the morning until eleven, leaving the whole afternoon free. Honestly, I had to laugh a little because she loves staying awake late at night. She has no idea yet what waking up before sunrise every day actually feels like.

Still, I understand her logic. Fruitloop said she was smart for choosing that schedule, and perhaps she is.

Since getting her car she drives everywhere constantly. I pay the insurance, she pays for fuel. Every second weekend she works at a local restaurant, but now she wants to leave because the boss is unfriendly. The funny thing is that outside the house she’s always smiling, always laughing with friends, always charming. Then at home I ask one small thing and suddenly I become the problem.

My husband keeps telling me to let her solve her own issues. He says if I stay quiet, eventually she will learn. But I worry too much. I know that already.

In September she will move into her own apartment in a neighbouring town.

Even saying that aloud still feels strange.

Part of me thinks it will be good for her. She may become more mature living alone. She’s confident in ways I never was at her age. I saw that already in Egypt when the shops only opened in the evenings. I hated walking through those streets because the sellers were so aggressive, always trying to force you to buy something. I never felt comfortable there. But she walked into shops alone without fear and bought whatever she wanted.

I admire that confidence even when it terrifies me.

At home, though, I prefer knowing where she is. There are areas that are not very safe, and once she leaves, the house will suddenly become quieter. Too quiet maybe.

Luckily my older daughter still comes home almost every weekend. Never the opposite. She actually likes being home. Especially now because my husband is preparing the pool for summer. The girls have a very strong complicity together. The older one often tells the younger one to be kinder with us. She’s become an example somehow — fashion, manners, little things. The younger copies her constantly even when pretending she does not.

Their music is another story completely.

I still love music from the eighties, and sometimes the younger one likes it too, but usually the car becomes filled with loud rap or R&B shaking the windows while we argue about the volume. It’s impossible to win.

Fruitloop asked me if there was something silly from childhood I would still do today. I admitted I actually used a jumping rope two years ago for training, but a hula hoop? Absolutely not. I cannot imagine doing that while my husband or daughters watch me. Some dignity must remain.

Though apparently not too much dignity, because in August we already decided to attend a “Charlie 2000” party with music from the nineties and early 2000s. So perhaps I am becoming playful after all.

But only a little.

Mostly my days stay predictable. I eat almost the same breakfast and lunch every day. During the week I eat at exactly the same times. If I run in the morning, I eat half a banana before leaving and the other half when I come back. Yesterday I ran eight kilometers, and tonight I might do a smaller run again if I still have energy after work.

Lately in the evenings I sit alone watching Younger You on Netflix because my husband is often not home. It’s become another routine without me noticing.

Fruitloop asked if small changes could alter how a day feels. Brushing teeth with the opposite hand, wearing funny socks, changing breakfast locations. I had to laugh because being left-handed already confused enough people when I was young. My father tried repeatedly to force me to write with my right hand. It never worked. Even now if I try brushing my teeth with the other hand, I have to focus so hard that it feels ridiculous.

Maybe that’s the point.

Still, I’m not changing my breakfast routine. I already lose enough time every morning.

And honestly, comfort matters more now than style anyway. Years ago I wore dresses much more often. Now I wear jeans and sneakers because I want to feel comfortable. My daughters and I have the same clothing size, so technically we can exchange clothes, but they never want mine. And I certainly will not wear their tiny crop tops. Some things are simply not meant for my age.

By the end of our conversation I was already thinking again about work waiting for me. So many emails. Too many unfinished things. I’m still covering another person’s work until next Tuesday, and I can feel the pressure in my shoulders all day long.

Outside it was only nineteen degrees according to my computer, though it felt colder. The mornings are still around three or four degrees, which feels unfair considering next week promises extreme heat again.

Life feels full lately. Loud music, teenagers, weather warnings, unfinished emails, bakery dreams, village festivals, and mothers worrying quietly while pretending everything is fine.

Maybe routines are not as fixed as I imagine after all.