I wrote this last week and did not get a chance to post it. Since then we went on a family 'vacation.' More on that later:-)
I had been barely clinging to the end
of my rope. I was grappling with an old foil. Anxiety. Panic attacks. Once
limited to school and social situations, it had now begun to pervade the
mundane elements of my days. My chest filled with a hive of bees at the thought
of leaving the house or interacting with people- even my extended family. I
suspect it began to awaken as I tussled with the Ground Hog’s Day loop of house
routines, dodging the throes of The Baby’s mounting exasperating two year old
demeanor while fighting to no avail to nurse influenza of the psyche. I was
bone tired from a deep internal aching for something more, something
different. I hoped it would hush itself soon.
While I gave each day the old college
try- hitting the reset button for a fresh start, the wires often crossed. I found myself feeling more fragile at each
trip up- wanting to fade into the background of my own life. The Mr. recognized
this and suggested that we visit the nursery to buy flowers for the garden. I
had been longing to fill patchy spaces which left the beds yearning for the
closure of a finishing touch.
An afternoon in the sun gave promise
for a stronger spirit. I felt more able. More steady. More clear. I accepted
The Mr.’s suggestion of taking a family road trip the following weekend. And I
agreed to run errands later that afternoon with him and The Baby to gather
supplies for the trip. We serviced The Baby- she was fed, rested, pottied. And, we headed to Target.
I wish I had been standing in wet sand- clement water washing over
my feet, a balmy breeze tangling around my ankles. Instead I stood in an aisle
where picked-over, discounted, seasonal overstock items await retirement at
Target. The Mr. and I stood there trying to console our irascible two year old
who had only moments earlier been pleasant enough to deceive us into thinking
she could handle a quick errand. She thrashed boorishly in the cart under the
grips of possession. She angrily yelled attention grabbing things like, “Go
away! Be quiet! I want my mommy!”
As I inched the cart toward a more inconspicuous location,
grabbing a hideous glittered fairy off the shelf to distract her, the dam
broke. Hot, acrid pee- a Niagara flowing from
the child seat- drenched my sandaled feet. Torrents flowing, flowing,
flowing. It splashed backward into the cart. Luckily the only item in the
basket was a bucket of sand toys. The Mr. lifted the bucket- confounded by the
volume and force of our child's stream. "Well, we have to buy it now,"
he said, tipping the liquid to the linoleum. I tried to mop up our trail with
one measly tissue.
Anxiety gripping my lungs and still
stinging from The Baby's urine bomb, I sped to our SUV- sandals intoning fast
wet farts against the tiles- while The Mr. paid for our new piss pot. In the
parking lot, a compact vehicle had sidled up to our SUV leaving mere
inches to open the door. The passengers were still inside with the windows
rolled down. I graced them with a deluge of involuntary, colored locution. So
much for remaining unassuming. I lifted the sopping toddler and held her at
arms length. Now she was happy. "We're going to the car. We're going to
the car," she sang loudly.
As I tried to maneuver in the impossible
space between the vehicles- hovering her waterlogged body over the seat,
another splash of magma fell upon my bare toes. I looked down to find my foot
dressed with curdled white matter. I looked up at The Baby, thinking that she
had puked. She had not. If I had a hacksaw I would have held that wet child in
one arm and amputated my foot with the other because at that moment the thought
of stepping in someone else's vomit made me want to give up right there in the
middle of the Target parking lot. It is a feeling that The Mr. expresses on
every trip to Target.
My body assumed the bone structure of a hamster
as I squeezed into the sliver of space on the floor behind the driver's seat- hanging
my upchuck dripping foot out the door, wrapping the toes of my other foot on
the handle to keep it from hitting the other car, holding The Baby by the back
of her shirt above the seat with one hand, while searching for wipes and a
change of clothes in her emergency bag with the other. I started to sob silently.
The Baby, suspended above me, looked down and asked, "Why you sad
Mama?'
"Mama's a mess,” I answered. "And, you
peed all over the place."
"You're a mess. And, I peed. Oh, I
peed!" she merrily, nakedly chirped back.
There were not enough wet wipes in the universe
to insure that my foot was clean. When The Mr. joined us, he assured me that I
had only stepped in milk which exploded from a carton left to fester and curdle
on a 90 degree day in the sun. He may have been just trying to appease me as he
could clearly feel my duress. We headed home to the solace of a bleach
foot bath and relief of the clock ticking down the daylight minutes.
What doesn’t kill you at Target,
certainly makes you stronger. While the sunny outlook of my new day turned
soggy, for once in a very long time I did not feel defeated by a set back.
That’s the thing about days- they eventually end. And there is always another
chance to start again- this time with a cache of new skills highlighting your
endurance and agility and putting into practice a valuable lesson: Always wear
closed- toe shoes.
