She was there within fifteen minutes. We loaded them up in her car and holding back more tears, I told them all I would pick them up in the morning and bring them a surprise. I was trying to compensate for blowing our whole day by being a total freak. They waved good-bye and I remember standing there in my hooded sweatshirt trying to figure out how I was going to tell Eric that I had broken the damn garage door.
He is a great guy, usually pretty laid-back, not the kind of guy to flip out over something like that. It’s just that I felt like such a nipple for doing it. What was I going to say when he got home from work? “Oh, hey honey, today after I lost our kids and exposed the baby to hepatitis, I took the kids to juvie and then crashed the van into our garage door. How was your day darling?” I decided even though I was freezing my balls off, I was going to get the garage door to shut. The opener was not working, so I pulled the little red string that unhooks the automatic and tried to pull it down with my muscles. I had to get a chair so I could reach, and after lots and lots of maneuvering and cussing, I got it to go down. I swear if my neighbors would have heard the words that were coming out of my mouth, they’d have called the cops. At one point, and I’m ashamed to admit this, I told the garage door to go and fuck it’s mother’s ass. Who the hell says that? At least it finally went down. Even though I knew I was going to eventually have to tell Eric, I could at least maybe stall the conversation until tomorrow. Fortunately, he parks in the driveway anyway.
I walked back into the house and collapsed on the couch. All was quiet. My house is so much different when it’s quiet, like a store that’s closed. I never know what to do when I am alone. I usually clean, but I forced myself to sit still and give myself a minute. I had left the brochure for the New Outlook Center on the coffee table. The extremely jovial and yet supposedly mentally ill woman on the cover was staring at me, smiling. I covered it up with a magazine and laid down for a grand total of five minutes before Eric’s key turned in the front door. He hugged me hello and asked where the kids were. When I told him they were at my mom’s for the night, he gave me that look. The look that basically means, “There is no excuse for not having sex.” Oh bloody hell.
Eric and I have had a happy marriage. We’ve been faithful and good to each other for thirteen years, married for seven. He can piss me off quicker than anyone I’ve ever met, though. He usually does it on purpose. He’s clumsy and sweet and means well. He spills everything. Literally every beverage the man has ever carried has been spilled in one way or another. Coffee, soda, you name it. I can usually find him anywhere in the house by following his drips from one room to another, because he is always spilling as he walks. He is one thirsty sonofabitch too, because he always has a drink in his hand. He doesn’t drink alcohol much, though, which is probably one of the reasons we mesh so well. I always have a designated driver. I even blame his spillage on my last pregnancy. It wasn’t planned, but Eric spilled a little on the way out. I knew immediately and said, “Oh great! I felt that, you idiot, now I’m pregnant. Way to go genius.” Bam...two weeks later I was “late,” bought a drug store brand pregnancy test, and saw a plus sign. It’s the one spill I’m glad he made, because I don’t know what I’d do without my baby Jordan. He was meant to be. So I have learned to accept his spills and keep my mop handy at all times. I also made him get a vasectomy...immediately.
He threw his backpack down on the floor, which always bothers me for two reasons. First of all, it should be put in the closet. And secondly, it has his computer in it and I’m always afraid he’s going to break it. He immediately walked over and put his arms around me. Not so much in a “honey I’m home” way, but more of an “I’m as hard as a rock” way. He took my hand and led me upstairs. I followed along like a child being dragged to time-out. I couldn’t even imagine doing sex things at that point. I just wanted to be left alone. I had to go along, because it wasn’t his fault my day had been so shitty, but I still didn’t want to do it. He unzipped my hoodie, which for me, at home, is like lingerie. As per usual, one hand went to a boob, the other hand went to the kitty cat.
“Eric, I don’t know if I can do this right now. My allergies are killing me!” I said very apologetically.
He looked at me with that little disappointed look he gets. “Well, I’m not going to stick it in your nose Vada,” he said, “unless you just want me to.”
I had to laugh. “Well, I have a headache and I’m not sure I’ll be very good at it. I’ll probably be better at it tomorrow. I’m probably going to just lay there like a dead person. Wouldn’t you rather wait until tomorrow? Or perhaps I could call you a prostitute? Would you like that? I’ll pick you out a real nice one with big boobs and daddy issues?”
“Vada, you’re the only hooker I want to have sex with so take some allergy medicine and quit bitching.”
“Oh fucking fine!” I snapped. “But at least let me take a shower first and brush my teeth. Don’t say I didn’t warn you that I’m going to be a dead lay! And remember this is against my will!”
“I’ll risk it, now hurry up.”
I showered, brushed my teeth, and put on a bra, underwear, and a t-shirt.
“Why do you always do that?” he asked. “You know I’m just going to take it off you anyways.”
“Why don’t you worry about what you are doing and quit worrying about what I’m doing? Mind your own business.”
I crawled into bed and did the best I could, considering the circumstances. Fortunately, he had to make it quick because he had a work call to get on, so it was short and sweet and to the point. It’s what I like to call a “quick hit.” That’s my favorite kind. It’s kind of like walking into a casino and hitting a jackpot with your first twenty bucks. It was just in this case I was the machine and he was the money. Ding ding ding, now cash out. You got what you came for, time to move along.
We laid there for a minute afterwards. I remember Eric asking me about my day and if it had gotten any better since our phone conversation. All I could say was, “Nothing really exciting happened.” I simply did not want to get into it. What I did want was a glass of wine. I had some hidden in the laundry room. Weird, huh? I know, but like I said before, don’t judge me. I poured a glass. He said he had to jump on his call, so I took advantage and sat in peace and drank wine. It was a nice relaxing moment.
I’m a drink-smoker. That means I only smoke when I drink. Two sips or two hundred sips, I immediately want to smoke the minute alcohol touches my lips. This is something Eric does not approve of. He hates the smell and just doesn’t get it. Well...he can suck it, because that is just the way I am and there is nothing I can do to change it. After the day I had, I thought I deserved a nice relaxing smoke with my nice relaxing wine.
I remembered that I had a pack of cigs hidden in an old purse in my bedroom closet. I went and fetched them. It was too cold to go outside and so I thought I’d sneak into the garage. I tried to manually lift the garage door, the same door that I had earlier suggested incestuous sodomy to, but it would only budge a crack. I thought a crack was good enough, and I was freezing. I decided I would sit in my van and blow the smoke out the window. I climbed in the van and turned it on to roll the window down. I lit my stogie and turned on my heated seats, carefully blowing the vapors out of the window as not to taint the car with the smell. I was enjoying my nicotine and spirits, which were finally beginning to lift my spirits, when I heard a beeping noise. Eric came running out yelling my name.
“Vada! Oh my God! The carbon monoxide detector is going off. What the hell are you doing? Turn the car off! You’re going to kill yourself!”
I seriously didn’t realize I had turned the engine on. I only meant to turn it enough to power the automatic windows and warm my butt up. I knew at that moment I was screwed, quite literally in the hot seat. Eric forced the garage door up enough and cleared the air out. He made me leave the house with him and had the firemen come make sure it was safe. Once they said it was, we went back into the house and he was acting funn
y. I can’t really explain it, but it was like he was worried and wanted to talk to me about something but he couldn’t. When we laid down for bed he started to rub my back. I thought that meant I was going to have to give it up again. Normally, his hands usually find their way around to the front, only this time they didn’t.
“Vadie,” he said, “we need to talk.”
Doing the Mom Thing
If you are reading this, there is probably a chance that you just got your kids down to sleep and you have a small window of time before someone needs to pee, or has a bad dream, or a baby starts to cry. Congratulations! You have accomplished an amazing thing. You have managed to satisfy a basic human need that often goes unmet once you have reproduced. Also, if you are reading this, there is probably a chance that you are using your “me time,” which has become almost non-existent since you have procreated.
Many of your basic human needs have most likely been forgotten since the moment your precious darling or darlings entered this world. Among these is the need to eat, sleep, and take a piss or shit in private, which is now considered a luxury experience. Since becoming a parent, you have given up the rights to your body and appearance. Your boobies may have had the life sucked right out of them. Your once tight ass is wider and more unfortunate than ever before. Your hair may go up wet and then frizz by noon, giving you a battered wife look. On the other hand, it may just have to be covered by a ball cap that itches like hell and will smell like dead mouse when you take it off.
Let’s address sexy time. I’m sure that’s important to you in one way or another. That’s a completely normal human activity, right? What used to be lights-on naughty-nighty on the kitchen counter humping, has now turned into the mission for missionary covered from head to toe with a comforter and one eye on the door with an overwhelming fear that your child will walk in and be scarred for life. Worse than that is the fear of actually getting into it enough that you start feeling something down there only to be cut off by a wail on the baby monitor leaving you with a case of female blueballs. Your man is gonna take care of his own business while you go down and get the baby back to sleep. Blah. You may want to just forget about it in the first place.
Let me add that while you have lost all of these things, these rights, these needs, you have gained the world. The fact that you have signed over your life doesn’t mean it’s all for nothing. As parents, we know that it is all worth it. Our babies, our families are worth every bit of sacrifice. We are martyrs. We are warriors. We are mothers. And although we may look like we have nothing left in us by the end of the day, there is still enough left in us to fight for our “me time.” So when you win this battle and you have this precious little ounce of time, try not to waste it. Read a book, watch those Kardashians, or just go eat your kids’ Halloween candy and say fuck a lot. It’s your time, so make it count.
Thanks as always for reading!
~V-Bow
March 2nd
That’s my blog, by the way. I have a blog. I use “V-Bow” as my name because I try and remain somewhat anonymous. My blogs aren’t exactly PG, and I don’t need judgment. I can’t handle it. This post is kind of special to me for some reason. It’s actually the last post I wrote before I got to this place. I kept having these little ideas, stories, and thoughts and I would randomly jot them down and email them to my friends and family. After a hundred times of hearing, “You should start a blog” I just did it. Being a stay-at-home mom, I found some time at least once or twice a week to share my funny stories or my ideas and at least let the world out there know I was alive. It’s been going okay and I guess I feel better having a blog, than being blog-less, if that makes any sense at all. It’s like, okay, today I am going to do something with myself, besides housework, and carpool, and trying to be the best mommy in the whole wide world. I don’t have a huge following, but enough to keep writing. So, that’s why I blog.
I am thirty-one. I’m okay with the thirty, but the one part throws me off for some reason. I can’t figure out why. Maybe I don’t like odd numbers or maybe it’s just that I’m older than thirty. I really am a nice girl, I swear. I participate in every school function, I never miss a well-visit at the pediatrician, and I literally mop my floors three times each day. Clean floors make me feel in control. They make me feel like I am doing a good job, even if the kids are screaming and we are running late, and I have fly-aways hanging out from my pony tail, like Shelly Duvall in The Shining. I mean what if the president stopped by? Wouldn’t you want to have clean floors? Well, I would, whether it was George W. Bush, Barack Obama, or George Washington, I’d like to have clean floors for the president.
I wanted kids all my life. I was just sure of it. I had the baby fever so bad that I would dream about babies every night. I would even rock a stuffed teddy bear with a diaper on it sometimes. I guess that is a little nutty, but I’m not in here for nothing. Oh, where am I you ask? I’m in the Nuthouse, The Looney Bin. Yep, that night after the carbon monoxide incident, Eric talked me into it. So here I am at The New Outlook Center for Mental and Behavioral Health, Women’s Division. Mrs. Vada Bower. Complete with an I.D. number and pills that come in little white cups, just like in the movies. My food comes on a little tray. They wake me at seven for breakfast and lights out is at ten. It’s slow-paced and quiet, for the most part. I get to take walks and read and watch the other nuts crack several times a day. Mary, my roommate, is crazy...like bath salts crazy. I’m actually afraid she’s going to eat my face, so I’m trying to get moved to a private room. It shouldn’t be hard because the staff here all know I’m not like these people. I’m afraid if I stay with her for too long, I’ll become a crazy-eyed bag of shit too. What if it’s contagious? Her way-too-short bangs stick to her forehead and are always damp. Maybe it’s because she’s sweaty, or maybe she’s just greasy. The first two inches of her mangy-looking hair are dishwater blonde and the bottom is dyed jet black. Not an intentional ombre style if you know what I mean. The poor thing’s face is so terribly broken out for an adult. I would really like to share some skincare product tips with her, but I’m not sure she would be too open to my help. She doesn’t say much, but she doesn’t have to. Her eyes are huge and bloodshot and she always looks like she’s bearing down—for a crap, or labor, or something. She’s not pregnant, but I’m ready for a gremlin baby to pop out of her at any moment. The idea of her looking at me with those eyes and crapping all over our room would probably freak me out more than delivering her baby. I could totally see the little thing coming out and looking up at me with those same eyes. Then, it would probably crap all over me as I tried to cut the cord. It would be my luck to get the best of both worlds. Anyway, I should be getting away from her soon. I may be off my rocker a little, but I’m not crazy.
We are having grilled chicken salad, bread sticks, and a pudding cup for dinner tonight. The pudding cup makes me miss my boys. They love those things and I get to lick the lid. They are always so quick to offer it and always so proud of their own generosity. Mary needs to keep her big bulging eyes on her own damn pudding cup. The way she keeps eye-fucking my dessert makes me not want it and it is really screwing up my nostalgic moment. What a nut bag. I want to dump it in the trash. But it’s chocolate. I can’t do it. I glare at her to see if she’ll blink but she doesn’t. My thoughts are racing and I’m getting a little frightened. Alright little Miss Mary Quite Contrary, you wanna go? I’m game. I’ll knock the crazy right out of your stupid face. I may be five foot tall and as big as your right thigh, but I know how to fight, because my boys taught me. And I don’t fight fair. I’ll smack your acne ridden face so hard that all those boils will pop at the same time, so you’d better fetch a rag to catch the drippings. I don’t want that shit on the floor. I like clean floors. And by the way, I know you are in here for bipolar disorder, so I really hope it’s happy time. That way you can feel all euphoric while I kick the ever-loving piss out of you and then sit on your passed-out body while I eat my dessert. What a psycho. But in real
life, I don’t say or do any of these things. In fact, I offer her my pudding cup. She takes it without saying a word. So I lie in bed and stew about why I’m so pathetic for the rest of the night. I finally rationalize what I’ve done by deciding that I’d rather her eat my pudding cup than eat my face.
March 3rd
“You ready for your visitors?” I hear. It’s Katelyn, the sweet little nurse who pretends to love her job. I wonder why she doesn’t just check herself in with the rest of us. Anyone who is this immaculate in their appearance has got to be covering up some kind of crazy. She is absolutely gorgeous. Her skin is a beautiful, dark brown and her black hair is pulled back in a funky knot with braids crossing in and out of wavy strands. Very boho-perfect. Her make-up is flawless and her complexion makes me feel like I should really start using toner. Her eye make-up I swear has to be tattooed on because it never smudges or fades and you can literally count her thick and separated lashes. She has striking brown eyes and a little heart-shaped smile. She literally looks like she’s been photo shopped. I haven’t asked but I would guess her to be around thirty or so, my age. I know she can’t be as perfect as she looks and she is always sniffling. I can’t figure out if she’s got seasonal allergies or if she is maybe snorting a little something-something out of those little white cups, if you know what I mean. Something’s keeping this chick one hundred pounds and working so fast. If I had to bet on it, I’d bet her allergies are just fine. I like Katelyn.
The Unbalancing Act Page 2
