Ten minutes is not a nap.
One minute was enough time to track mud through the kitchen
yesterday. Five minutes was long enough to argue with a child before she
stormed out of the room last night. Eight minutes was the time it took to flood
a bathroom this morning. Ten minutes is long enough to lose it and reconsider
why you became a mom.
But it is definitely not a nap.
“Parker!” The blood pulsing in my eardrums competed with the
cries of the baby. “Stop it right there,” I grumbled through clenched teeth and
grabbed him by the arm as he made a last ditch effort to run past me. It had
taken twenty-two minutes exactly to put that over-tired baby to sleep. I
watched the clock tick with every ache in my back. With a controlled breath
out, I slowly relaxed my grip on Parker’s arm. It’s been a long day and it’s not even lunch so pull—it—together, I
told myself.
“What were you doing in the baby’s room?” I asked, in stiff,
measured syllables. I squinted my eyes, trying to drown out the crying baby and
the exhaustion that had been building all week.
“I need socks for soccer practice,” he said, his mouth left
open, like, duh.
“Why on earth would your socks be in the baby’s room?”
“I don’t know. I was just looking everywhere.”
“Well, the baby’s room is off limits.” I let go of his arm already
heading toward the baby. Parker followed, still asking where his socks were,
trying to squeeze in and walk side-by-side in the narrow hall.
“Look in your laundry.” He turned and ran back down the
hallway. “Your laundry in your room, not the stacks on the couch,” I called
after him.
I walked reluctantly into the baby’s room, feet moving
slowly like the Little Engine That Couldn’t. Looking over the rim of the crib,
I stared at my crying baby girl, lying on her pink crocheted blanket, her
pacifier clutched in her frantic fist. I
don’t know what else to give you, I thought. You’ve been nursed, burped, changed and rocked to sleep and now I have
nothing. I hadn’t realized I was crying until I saw my tears mix with hers
on her flushed cheeks.
“Mom?” a small voice called from behind. “Mom, I hungee.” I
felt small hands wrap around my leg.
How long had I been crying? Where are the children? What are
we going to eat? My drained mind filled with questions as I picked up my baby.
I didn’t know what to tell my 3-year-old daughter, Camille. I hadn’t been to
the store for a week and the cupboards and fridge were bare. “Apples,” I mumbled,
picking up the still crying baby.
Heading for the kitchen and already wanting to call it
quits, the state of the family room put me over the edge. The furniture was
covered by clean clothing that had, minutes before, been folded in a basket on
the couch. I followed a trail of socks through the family room, into the
kitchen, like a prisoner on a death march. Each step released any resolve or
strength I had held in reserve. I was done, finished. It was over. I was as
empty as the overturned laundry basket.
Camille held out an apple with a bite taken out of it.
“Yucky,” she said, through pinched, disgruntled lips. Without breaking the
rhythm of my march, I opened the fridge to get her a new, un-desecrated apple. Five
apples in the produce drawer and every one of them had already been sampled and
placed back into the fridge.
I didn’t blink. I didn’t care. I was already done. I stared
at Camille, my eyes wide and vacant as she looked back at me, expectantly.
The doorbell rang. Wiping a fresh pool
of tears from under my eyes, I answered the door to find my visiting teacher,
Joyce.
“Hi Karin,” she said, hesitating before handing me a plate
of cookies. “If I don’t give these away, I’ll eat them all myself.”
I rearranged the loosely swaddled baby in my arms to take
the plate but Camille beat me to it, rushing back into the kitchen, already
pulling the plastic wrap off the plate. My eyes lingered down the hall after
her, relieved that she now had something to
eat.
“Are you OK?” Joyce asked, pulling back my attention.
“Yes,” I smiled, nervously, unsettled by the confused looked
on her face. “Yes, of course. We were just getting hungry around here so thank
you so much for the cookies.” I tried to push the image of the family room
buried in laundry out of my mind, wondering how long and loud the baby would
cry while I cleaned it up.
“Are you sure?” she asked again, smiling wider.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I smiled, placing my hand on the door,
indicating it was time for me to get back to my family. Joyce took the cue.
“Let me know if there is anything I can
do for you,” I recited along with her in my mind.
I closed the door and let the emotion wave over me again.
Five minutes was too long to put on a show today. My eyes drifted to my
reflection in a decorative mirror in the entryway and I stared, paralyzed.
Squinting, I leaned in to get a good look at the face in the reflection. Red
eyes stared back, blank and baffled. Mascara ran down my blotchy cheeks.
Everything I tried to hide was running down my cheeks, calling
my bluff in dark, wet streaks.
This is ridiculous,
I thought, embarrassed at being caught in my own deception. “I’m done being
done,” I told my reflection. “I can’t do this alone.” Who am I trying to fool
anyway? And why? Empowered with a strength born of humiliation, I called after
my visiting teacher.
“Joyce,” I called. “I’ve got a laundry basket I need to fill
and I could use some help. Do you have a minute?”
