Waving Not Drowning

Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Can you imagine that like every minute of evey day? Right? It would drive me crazy, I couldn't take it. It's 24/7, all the time with them. All. The. Time. It never ends, I'll be 65 and they'll still be needy, still be calling me, asking for money, needing help with something or other. I can't do it, I just have no desire. And your body, oh my god, do  not get me started about what having kids does to your poor body. Your insides fall out. They do. Everything in there gets all stretched and saggy and just wrecked. I've seen women who've had kids- two! It's not like I'm talking about 4 or 6 or a litter like that kate and Jon woman or the octomom- and they're just a mess. Not pretty. I'm too vain, way too vain to put myself through that, I'm sorry. I know, I'm 34, ok, I get it. Technically I still have time but that's the thing, right? I do not want to be some ancient old mom collapsed on the side of the play...

Whenever Cheryl sees a parent with a young kid, like a 3 year old toddler, she thinks to herself man, that's heroic. It's bloody fucking heroic, is what that is. There's this tiny little person clinging onto their dad like a koala bear as he straddles her across his hips like a casual sack of groceries. Nonchalant, all easy-like. It blows Cheryl's mind. There was a time when her ovaries would have exploded but now they're all shrivelled up and useless. That's what she tells herself.  Physiologically it's not true but she envisions her womb as closed for business right now. Psychically it's as if she's hung a sign that reads Under Renovations, Please Be Patient. Whatever it is, she's reading as unapproachable, beholden to none and Not Available. Hence the sleepy ovaries. If  Emmet had his shit together Cheryl thinks the two of them would have made exceptional babies. He was the only man she ever envisioned breeding with. Ever. A lot of near misses...

"I'm drowning here, Dad, I'm going under and I can't get back to shore. I can't, I can't make it, Dad, I can't do this without you, you gotta help me, you gotta throw me a line here." Zach is pleading, eyes watery, lip quivering, hands shaking. Jake is helpless when his eldest son gets like this: frantic, desperate, anxiety ridden and manic. It's four am and Jake is struggling to stay awake, let alone stand up. "Come on, Zach, calm down. Why don't you crash in your old room and we'll talk about it in the  morning. Your mom and brothers are asleep- Arnold wakes up for practice in two hours Zach, you gotta lemme get some rest or I'll be useless to everyone."  Zach paces, like a caged animal, shaking his hands like he's trying to rid himself of imaginary water. Two months he lasted this time. A good facility, showed signs of progress even; the phone calls were more managed, the family visits controlled, civilized. Jake liked ...

Thursday afternoons are the worst. Simon can barely muster enough energy to put the kettle on let alone tend to the baby and the dog. Alex was teething now and a constant screaming, drooling, cacophonous ball of anguish. The dog on the other hand has finally reached his senior years and sleeps and farts 21 hours a day. Four days into the week with a day and a half to go and inevitably Simon falls apart, like clockwork. It's been five months of full time stay at home single parenting and Simon can't remember how he ever imagined this would make him happy or keep him fulfilled. He is the only stay at home dad for miles round, a complete anomaly in his sleepy suburban bedroom community. It's terrifically lonely. The yummy mummies ostracize him and the Filipino nannies and young British and Belgian Au Pairs don't even acknowledge his existence in the playground. Su wanted to stay home but she makes a full 45% more than Simon and her benefits are ridiculous. It only made sen...

They enter through the door together. She makes her way into the crowded car. Only then does she look over her shoulder to realize he has planted himself near the first pole. A flash of betrayal obscures her face. He is immovable. Feigning intention she backtracks to him, grasps the hanging strap above her head and roots herself. Compliant only on her terms. He reeks of defiance. In no way will he accommodate her. This is where he stands, immutable, unyielding. As always, it is up to her to bend and sway, fill the spaces between, round off his sharp edges, modify at a moment's notice. She is liquid, he is stone. She flows and surrounds, seeps into every pore and crevice, enveloping his implacable self with her tidal substance. Ebb and flow, seeking balance, equilibrium. The struggle is monumental yet she can not give way. The months turn to years. He is resolute in his choices, convicted. This battle will rage on for days to come, there is no means of extrication short of abandonme...