work-self-balance / uncategorized Sunday Bloody Sunday (continued) | Better Way Moms
Today is May 18, 2012

Where Did I Go?

A woman’s life becomes a series of details. Somewhere in there, the woman still exists.

Sunday Bloody Sunday (continued)

After manually inflating three quarters of the kayak, we realize one of the screw caps to the air tubes is missing. Without it we cannot keep the kayak inflated. We search the car without success. Meanwhile, outside the car, Jack is behaving like a lunatic, running around the parking lot, growling, swatting bugs and birds with a kayak oar and yelping, “CHARGE!” We let him go. We’re too angry about the kayak. Who cares what others think of our child? Maybe we are lousy parents. All we want to do is growl over how we got jilted and shortchanged on our bike ride and now our kayaking trip is going up in smoke too.

Instead of grabbing the oar out of Jack’s hands, we are hastily loading up the kayak, and scheming up a good alibi to tell Betty about losing the kayak cap or better yet, blame her for losing the cap and then suspiciously loaning us dangerous and faulty equipment.

“We could have drowned!” I will tell her.

Once we were all packed and ready to go, the second not so minor problem occurs. I pick up Jack to put him in his car seat and he pukes all over me. Then he cries because he doesn’t want to get in the car and have to endure the tortuously curvy back roads home. We decide to drive to a nearby nursery, which we know well, to use their restroom to clean up. I go wash off in the bathroom and in the dusty mirror I see one of those haggard, stressed out mom’s I swore I’d never become. I exit the rest area and enter the blooming test garden in the middle of the nursery. It is a magnificent, warm Sunday afternoon and quiet, hopeful gardeners are peacefully planning their spring perennial beds. I stop to take in the serenity. Then I turn and notice Bill wandering around the nursery looking very, very miserable. I turn again and see Jack on the other side of the property nonchalantly skipping and pulling out the name tags of plants and throwing them up in the air while singing, “Yippeeee.” I turn again and see two nurserymen pointing, probably wondering where the parents of that unsupervised kid are. I yell over to Bill. He runs towards Jack. I take a shortcut by leaping over boxwoods, lavenders and ouch, miniature rose bushes, and I seize the perpetrator. I hurry back to the parking lot with that blonde, moptop, whirling-dervish grabbing leaves off of plants, kicking wildly in the air, and screaming, “No, NO, NOOO! MAMA. NO, MAMA. You are the Mean Mama.HELP, HELP! HELP! LET ME GO! WHAAAAAAA! WHAAAAAA! WHAAAAA!”

I am out of breath. I am sweating. I am dizzy from hyperventilating. Sun block is dripping into my eyes. The stench of soymilk vomit still saturates the air. I make it to the Jeep. People are staring at me as I strap my hysterical child into his car seat and emphatically slam the door closed. I snatch my sunglasses off and give them the evil eye.

Don’t &@%# with me.

Bill slithers in to the driver seat, pretending he doesn’t know us. He tries to avoid their stares. We are not speaking. Jack’s wailing soon subsides into quieter sobbing and sniffling. Nestled amongst his stuffed bunnies, teetering on the cusp of sleep, he laments, “Papa, this is the worsted day of my life.”

We arrive home. Frustrated. Confused. But we are still standing, and our boy is asleep for the evening. I tuck him in his bed and kiss his soft cheeks. We unload the bikes and the busted kayak. It’s been a long day. But, wait, there’s still some unfinished business. Bill heads for Jack’s room, while I put on a pot of coffee. Bill returns having heisted the heart shaped basket of chocolate Easter eggs Jack got from his grandparents last week. Together the two of us sit back, relax, and enjoy a colorful sunset from our kitchen table devouring every last chocolate egg.

We are learning to appreciate the small things in life.

Author:  Annie Spiegelman