“Dammit, Violet!”
It shot out of my mouth. I hadn’t caught myself this time. She went silent until a huge wail came from the depths of her being. My stomach flopped. I felt equal parts rotten and justified mother. I sat down and wrapped my arms around her as she snuggled tightly in my lap like a kitten, crying harder. I felt seasick from the choppiness of emotions—my own and Violet’s—vacillating from low to high, all within the same moment, multiple times a day, every day. Mothering was the journey of a hundred daily dinghy rides, back and forth to opposing ports. Why didn’t anyone talk about this part?
I wiped the wet wisps of hair out of her eyes. I knew I was the adult here, but I couldn’t bring myself to apologize, yet. I felt victimized too and hadn’t forgotten the act that caused me to vocalize the profanity in the first place. But I gave Violet the best I could muster in that moment, a consolation prize.
“Let’s clean this mess up together,” I said through a tightened throat. She contracted into a tighter ball.
I stopped the show. She unfurled herself and sat up. “No, Mama!”
I looked at her and held a finger up, serious. “Storybots comes back after you help me clean up the mess. That’s the deal.”
No deal. She threw herself off of my lap and into the corner of the couch, bawling and kicking. Her foot struck me square in the breast, leaving a heavy sting in the very thing that had given her sustenance as a baby. The injustice nearly undid me as I mumbled, “Fuck,” underneath my breath, clutching my boob and moving away from the hysterics. I seethed as I speed-walked to the only place that held temporary peace as I tried to put myself back together: the bathroom. I locked the door, lifted the lid, and sat down on the cold seat. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had gone. Was it this morning? Had I even drank any water today? I pulled my phone out of my cardigan pocket and clicked it on. Only two more hours until Aaron would be home to bear some of the onslaught with me. I felt a hopeful twinge. I told myself that I could make it two more hours.
The wails coming from the couch subsided, but only because they had moved right outside my shithouse of solitude. Then the banging started. And the screams. The half-taken shit. Elliot’s out-of-the-pants magic upon entering the house. The iPad finagling. Aaron’s “I’m going to be late tonight” text message shove over the edge. The counter holding me up.
I didn’t know how to answer Aaron without utter contempt, so I gave no reply. There needed to be an emoji for a wife who was choking down resentment yet again at having to face the pitfalls of the evening alone with children. The face with the X’s for eyes seemed like the closest thing.
I had no choice but to reassess the homemade dinner I had planned on extruding through the pasta roller with the kids, like on the cooking shows we watched together. Getting through the evening in one piece was my new mission, and my first order of business was finding the packaged spaghetti. Second was handing Elliot the iPad and third was turning Storybots back on for Violet and telling her to pick blueberries off the ground if she was hungry. Fourth was driving away and never coming back.
I needed fortitude of some kind, so I click-click-clicked the gas on for the stove and set a tea kettle on it. Coffee drinking might’ve been the key to my entire parenting experience, but I would never know because after having kids, my bowels had gone on strike and rioted at any caffeine or alcohol. I opened a bag of loose tea leaves and sniffed hard, expecting (hoping) to smell pot, but I didn’t. It smelled like chamomile instead.
An incoming email dinged on my phone. It was from Elliot’s teacher, reminding me—not him, but me, because this is how modern parenting works—that book reports were due tomorrow and needed to be accompanied by a list of questions that the kids would hypothetically ask the author.
“Elliot, you did your book report, right?”
“Just a sec, Mom,” he said robotically, eyes glued to the iPad.
“iPad down, now.” I was beginning to steam like the tea kettle.
“I did it at school.”
“The questions for the author too?”
“Ummm.”
I looked at him long and hard until he dragged his corpse over to the art supply cabinet, slowly slid a sheet of paper out, and plunked down into a chair at the kitchen table.
“First, we should put the word ‘Questions’ at the top, don’t you think?” I suggested, in that way mothers tell you what to do, but in the form of a question.
He nodded and began. And then stopped. “Mom, I don’t know how to make a capital Q.”
I looked out the window at the clear blue sky and Violet’s half-dead fairy garden below it, as if they could offer me anything. My phone rang. It was Marnie trying to FaceTime with us. I clicked the decline button on my own mother so I could get back to being one myself.
“You really don’t know how to make a capital Q?”
“I’ve never had to write one before,” he said, his voice quivering. He looked down at the paper, made an O and put the tail of the Q on the wrong side. I was speechless. How was this possible? How had he gotten through to the third grade—and with decent marks—if he couldn’t write a fucking capital Q? Nothing made sense. We had about two more painstaking hours ahead of us and writing a capital Q was probably the easiest part.
“Mama, I needs something eat!” Violet yelled, running toward me.
I contemplated snorting a line of tea leaves, but instead I pointed at Elliot and said, “You, figure out how to write a capital Q.” Then I picked up Violet, the packaged spaghetti, and a handful of Goldfish crackers as bait, and said, “You, help me with dinner.”
I could do it. The finish line was so close. Also, I had no choice.
CHAPTER FOUR
Parenting for Fifteen Hours Isn’t an Aphrodisiac
For dessert, I rattled two Advil out of a bottle. The mediocre spaghetti dinner had sufficed, and the child abuse in the form of teaching someone to write a capital Q at age eight was now behind us. I had triumphantly made it to bedtime. Not my own, of course, but kid bedtime—the time of night when I had the least will to live and my kids had the most.
Tonight included the usual shenanigans of heavy negotiation, stalling, a bumped ankle, tears, the application of a My Little Pony Band-Aid, the removal of a My Little Pony Band-Aid, the right pajama drama, slow-ass water slurping, chasing, hiding, hog-tying, and then threats. I turned out the soft light in Violet’s room. The lack of nap knocked her out cold.
One down.
Even though Elliot was old enough to have a job in some cultures, his bedtime routine length doubled that of Violet’s because he simply would not fall asleep without another human body lying next to his. The whole thing was sweetly maddening. We laid there, in the dark, looking up at the glowing stars I had helped him stick to his ceiling.
“Mom, this shirt’s tag is itchy.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I went dizzy. Then I motioned for him to get a new shirt because I knew I couldn’t hide my exasperation if I spoke. Constantly trying to temper outward signs of my motherly frustration was wearing, but if I didn’t, my kids would grow up feeling like they were a burden on me, which they sometimes were by nature, but they didn’t need to know that. And fuck, it was hard to pretend to enjoy the unenjoyable parts of motherhood.
Back under the covers again, Elliot pressed his shoulder against mine and said, “I forgot to feed my fish.”
I moaned as if I were in labor. “You have ten seconds to feed Slippery.”
He beat the clock and returned to bed.
“Good night, El. Love you,” I said through gritted teeth. I searched for his cheek to kiss in the dark, finally landing it.
“Love you too, Mom.”
I shut my eyes and felt the glory of my body sinking into the bed.
“Mom, I forgot to look for that Pokémon card. Can I just find it really quick?” He was sitting up.
“Lay down, Elliot. It’s time for bed. Love. You.” It was taking all my self-restraint and goodwill to en
d this day on a positive note. I knew if he voiced his need to do one more thing I would spew fire this time. Please don’t say another word. Please don’t say another word.
He laid back down and softly rolled over, his legs touching mine. I pulled my silenced phone out from my pocket and ducked underneath the covers to dampen the light from the screen. Elliot made a relaxed, baby-like sigh which reminded me of when he was a toddler, before smartphones existed, when it felt something like suffocation to be incarcerated for thirty minutes or more with a child who may or may not be sleeping, with no line of connection to other humans—kind of like a POW. Now I could meal-plan, buy paper towels, or mindlessly scroll Facebook while lying next to him.
The sound of the garage door buzzed below. Aaron was finally home. I could hear one of his wonk political pod-casts booming from his car below in the garage. His every move was amplified in the silence of sleeping children— the car keys clanging in the bowl, the beer bottle top popping, the air conditioning turning on. Dammit. I imagined him hungry and tired.
My phone lit up with a text from him.
Hey. Did you fall asleep with the kids? Or are you in the nest?
Lying in the dark had dampened enough of my resentment so I could at least text him back this time.
I’m about to attempt my escape from child #2.
When Elliot’s breathing turned deep and loud, I rolled over with my arms pinned to my side, moving in slow-motion, maneuvering to avoid the edges—the squeak zone—at all costs. Victorious, I emerged from his room like a bedraggled marathon runner finally crossing the finish line. I came downstairs to find Aaron happily eating the meh spaghetti. His eyes lit up when he saw me, just like my kids’ did.
“Hey,” he said with a full mouth. He was scarfing down his dinner as if he didn’t get a state-mandated lunch break. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move and then vanish. It slowly peeked its head out again. It was Elliot—who had been asleep nanoseconds ago—looking around the corner, like goddamn Houdini.
“Why are you out of bed?” I asked.
“I get scared sometimes.” Tears were brimming in his eyes. I looked at Aaron, who was about to take his first bite of garlic bread. Someone had to act quickly before there was actual crying from Elliot that would protract things even longer. Aaron chomped loudly.
“Come on, let’s go,” I said, pointing upstairs.
“Sorry we didn’t get to read comics tonight, El. Tomorrow for sure.”
Elliot smiled and shuffled over to Aaron for a hug, just like he had this morning. Bookend parenting. I couldn’t bear to look at Aaron and his beard full of crumbs.
Elliot and I laid in bed, take two. The glowing stars were more muted than before, which juxtaposed my irritation level which was at a solid twelve.
“Mom, who was your best friend in third grade?”
“Dude. Sleep.”
“I just keep thinking about Freddy.” He was referring to an animatronic bear in a game that was a mix between Chucky from your nightmares and Chuck E. Cheese from your birthdays.
“What are some other things you can think about?”
“Nothing, I’m too scared.” His tears were returning.
I knew there was one thing that would work, but it would require me to push through the pain. If I can just do this one last thing, I’m off for the night. I swallowed hard enough to perform an attitude adjustment and began to sing a song that Elliot had heard through the walls of my womb, and then every night after as a toddler. It was My Cherie Amour by Stevie Wonder. He moved his head against mine and snuggled in closely as I sang.
After I finished my last “La la,” only the hum of Slippery’s tank filter could be heard. But I knew it was too soon to leave, and couldn’t bear risking it all again. I retreated to my under-the-covers phone cave. There was a text waiting from Aaron.
Don’t forget we have Bachelor tonight!
What a paradox he was. Intelligent but clueless. Political but privileged. Progressive but a reality TV junkie. When Aaron and I first got married, my girlfriends swooned over his ability to do chores without being asked. We’d host dinners and afterwards, Aaron would scrub plates while verbally dissecting punk-rock albums with his buddies in the kitchen, like it was the most normal thing for a guy to do. Raised by his mom and grandmother, he never saw a first-hand distinction between men’s and women’s roles in his own home. As someone who could change her own flat tire, I was pulled in by Aaron’s modern masculinity—strong but soft. My friends assumed that I trained him to vacuum and do laundry, but he came to me that way. Aside from the obvious practical benefits of having a roommate who can clean up after themselves, I saw his thoughtfulness as a reflection of our equality and his respect for me. But after having kids, the immense workload of parenthood and our gender roles within it had muddied things. Even though Aaron was modern, he was still a man. Behind my back, fatherhood had quietly bestowed him the luxury of letting the household and kid tasks fall on me, while motherhood had gifted me with quick reflexes to catch it all.
It was 9:38 p.m. when I surfaced for the second time. I had parented for fifteen hours straight. Aaron sat on the couch munching from a bowl of pretzels, much like his children did. He reached his arms out for me to cuddle with him, much like his children did. I obliged even though all I wanted was for my body to finally be touching no one. He raised his eyebrows as he motioned to the TV with Bachelor all queued up.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded and grabbed a blanket. What an oxymoron he truly was: equally interested in Noam Chomsky and Chris Harrison. Aaron snuggled up closer to me so we could share my blanket. I wanted to want that too, but the truth was I just wanted some goddamn personal space and for no one to need anything from me.
He lovingly rubbed my leg as we watched train-wreck girls vie for a milk-toast douche. If Aaron had it his way, he would be touching me—even innocently—every second of the day and night. His love language was physical contact, just like Elliot. But my love language was being left completely alone.
I became hyper aware of Aaron’s touch and the possible unspoken obligation behind it. My hard-earned Bachelor bliss was being taken from me as his hand softly slid onto my lower leg, finding its way underneath my flowy pajama pants. I told myself it would stop, but it slowly moved to my upper leg and then towards the side of my ass. Too much. I leapt up off the couch like someone had dropped a rubber snake in my lap.
“Oh my God, what?” he asked, backing away from me.
“I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “It’s . . . I just can’t be touched in that way after the kind of day I had.” And really, it was all the days I’ve had in the past eight years. A gaggle of women played flirty football against the Bachelor on the TV in the background.
“I was just rubbing your leg, I didn’t mean to put you in an uncomfortable situation. I haven’t seen you all day,” he said, his bafflement turning to annoyance.
“It’s not personal. I just don’t want to be touched.”
“How am I not supposed to take it personally?”
“Because it isn’t personal. It’s not like I want to be touched by some other guy. I just want to be touched by no one.”
Aaron sat on the couch, his head hanging down, looking wounded and rejected—the exact opposite of the Bachelor touching the asses of all the ladies. I turned the TV off.
Aaron picked his head up. “April, I know you are overwhelmed. I try my best to understand that you’re not up for sex like I am. But it’s driving me crazy not being able to even touch you—to connect with you.”
I sat silently. He wasn’t wrong. Letting him rub my ass on the couch was the last thing on my 10 p.m. wish list, which was the time of day when we were finally alone together. But after being pecked to death by children all day long, I just couldn’t take on another pecker.
We sat on opposite ends of the couch in silence, the blanket tossed in the middle. As I stared at the floor, Aaron’s bare foot caught my eye, the one with t
he pink-painted big toenail, the sloppy work of Violet last weekend.
“I wish I wasn’t so touched out at the end of the day. I can’t imagine it will stay this way forever.” There I was giving comfort after having been pushed too far, yet again.
Aaron sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Why did you just roll your eyes?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You just rolled your eyes while I was trying to be honest with you.”
“Okay, sorry if I rolled my eyes.”
“If you rolled your eyes? You did roll your eyes.”
We were at the crossroads that every married argument takes: semantics vs. the actual issue at hand. The only way out was for one person to let the thing go. It was usually the more exhausted person who conceded.
“Never mind, Aaron. It doesn’t matter. I love you. And I don’t know what to do. But please know this is nothing personal.” I moved over and put my hand on his leg. He nodded slowly, as if he didn’t believe me. “Like even if Justin Timberlake were here right now with his dick in a box for me, I would not want anything to do with it,” I said, testing the tension to see if it could withstand any humor.
He didn’t smile.
In the days before kids, a marital argument would’ve gone on for hours, into the night, with much rehashing and re-explaining. And perhaps it would’ve ended with some hot 3 a.m. make-up sex. But the smartest thing for me to do right now was to get to bed and save myself. Staying up into the night—especially for a fight—would make the next day even more unbearable than it was going to be.
Separately, we cut our losses and walked upstairs, still remembering to tread softly past the kid’s bedroom doors. We brushed our teeth side by side, with sleepy eyes, in silence and disconnect. Aaron stared at his phone while his electronic toothbrush buzzed. We got into bed and turned our lamps off one after the other. I closed my eyes and wondered if there was anything else that I could say to him to make him get it, especially now that the room was dark, and I didn’t have to look at him.
Adult Conversation Page 3
