Mocha Day

Today is a mocha day. By that I mean a day on which, by the time I reach the coffee shop, I believe I deserve a shitload of extra calories and some whipped cream. Also, I deserve to be able to swear, guilt-free. Which means you probably won't get to read any of this until you are at least 48.

I spent last night in the Cities. I did so for a joyful reason: Supergroup. Supergroup is Mommy's writing group comprised of lovely people from the Loft. During Supergroup we drink wine and eat soft cheese and squares of chocolate and then sometimes we talk about writing. This is all quite wonderful. But now that I have you--lovely you--hosting Supergroup also consists of lots of schlepping. Schlepping you into your coat, schlepping you into your car seat, schlepping the car seat into the car. Then there is the schlepping of the bags: pump bag, diaper bag, computer bag, clothing bag, and food bag (pineapple, cranberry swirled cheese, trail mix and a box of red wine). Also my purse. There is the schlepping of the purse.

And so, by the time I get home from one of these 24 hour ventures, I am tired. I am sick of schlepping. And so when I was leaving the Cities today, I called your father to say "we are leaving" so that when we arrived home I would not have to schlep alone.

But he was in the shower. So again I schlepped. And then I bounced you and read to you and changed you and meanwhile I said to your father: "At 2pm I am leaving. I am taking my break." So I fed you and then it came time to leave. It was 1:45. And your father said: "You will be back at 3:45, right? Because we should be consistent. If you say you're leaving for two hours, it should be two hours."

And I lost my marbles. I lost them and they rolled all over the floor and made a very loud racket. The sound of my marbles rolling on the floor--and the look of it--is me hopping and shrieking and wringing my hands and screaming obscenities at your father. In the middle of the obscenities I kept saying "you had 24 hours! you had 24 hours! I have not had 24 hours to myself since September!" Then I kicked my pink fuzzy slippers against the door. Hard.

Meanwhile, you gurgled on the changing table.

Today is a mocha day.

And because it is a mocha day I will tell you another truth. A horrible truth. A Post Secret kind of truth.

Sometimes I look at you and feel that you do not belong to me at all. That you are not of me. I see only traces of your father in your face and I wonder where I am. If there is going to be this fading and battering of my identity, don't I deserve to see myself appear, just a little, in your visage? Shouldn't the slivers of myself that have disappeared, shouldn't they reappear elsewhere, in you?

It is a mocha day. And now I am crying a little in the library. In front of me is a painting entitled "Jubilate" by John Maakestad.

Jubilate. Yu-be-la-ta. A joyous song or outburst or the third Sunday after Easter.

The third Sunday after. When the newness of resurrection has worn off a little. When you have heard the story repeated one too many times. When it is clear that life will no longer be the same. On the third Sunday after Easter there is a tiny part of you that wants to go back to the way things were. When death was the end. When the end meant no more.

All the rules in my world have changed, Thisbe. But there are moments where I wish I could go back. 24 hours all my own. Your face not locked behind the cage of my ribs.