Waving Not Drowning

It's not her drama. They're nattering on like pissy little school girls, taking strips off their best friend's husbands, talking smack about her legs, his face, her skin, his place. It's appalling. A self perpetuating feeding frenzy of judgement, these forty year old women buzz like a bee hive under siege in the music school's waiting room. Such vitriol and bile, Veronica can't control the scowl creeping across her face. Tuesday night ritual: bitch n bash. Ronnie drops off and picks up her nephew, the world's best boy. A seven year old dynamo of genius and giggles. Normally she spends the hour of Grayson's piano lesson doing homework at the cafe next door but there's a staff christmas party tonight so she's left to her own devices in the too close for comfort foyer. Ronnie wonders why women like this have children to begin with since everything in their lives seems to be an unbearable burden and trial. Rich, white, suburban, solidly middle class ...

Man, I don't know, he answers every question with a question, makes me crazy. Cryptic little bugger. What do I do? I mean, he's her kid, not mine. I'm not a parent, not even close. No clue where to begin. Half the time he makes wanna turn tail and run the other half  I'm stunned speechless. I swear, one minute he's a genius, makes me feel like I'm lost in space, totally wise beyond his years. Filled with these zen koans, for crying out loud. Spilling out of him like a beat poet on mushrooms, so easy. And funny. Holy wow. Cracks me up. Then the next minute he's screaming blue murder or crying or whining or gets weirdly quiet and it just, you know, it unnerves me, man. I don't know what to do. I mean, he's a kid, right? I'm the boss. Or at least I should be but he gets me tied up in knots and wrapped around his little finger. I am done for. It melts my heart and fries my brain and when he doesn't come round for more than 4 days I'm sick wit...

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...

He packed a bag just in case. You never know, somewhere down the line he might have to make a move and he wants to be ready. Scott's biggest fear is not being prepared. Missing the moment, being left behind, lost in translation somehow. Scott's dad ran out on them when Scott was two, said he wasn't cut out to be a parent which left Scott the man of the house. That was Joan's favourite phrase: "Looks like it's up to you, Man of the House. You're gonna have to pull your weight around here if we're ever gonna get ourselves out from under." He was 6 when he started making dinner and doing laundry; 8 when he mowed the lawn and bought the groceries. It was only the two of them but it was a lot for a kid to handle, especially the burden of expectation that Scott somehow represent the masculine ideal in the household. His voice hadn't broken and he'd never been laid by the time he was driving and banking and learning how to manage a household. Joan...

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 ...

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...