Here is a story I wrote earlier this year. Some parts are based on reality. Other parts are exactly as they happened. All of it is true.
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Courage
does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the
day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.” - Mary Anne Radmacher
The shrilling alarm pierces
through her. Dazed she fishes around on the bedside table until the stop button
mercifully comes out of hiding. Lingering in the quiet a few moments, she knows
the day must eventually be faced.
Bones creak and limbs ache as she
makes her way to the refrigerator. Bending to retrieve the juice from the
bottom shelf, something odd on the tile beneath catches her eye. At first
glance it looks like a dirty mark. She makes a mental note that the floors are overdue
for a mopping. Slowly the realisation dawns on her that most tiles bear the
same peculiar little smudge. On closer inspection the spots are not dirt. They
are, in fact, lead pencil.
The guilty party is stood trial
and given a chance to explain. Because goodness knows she is baffled and
requires an explanation. His rationale reveals the observation of small white flecks
that do not belong in the chocolate brown. It was urgent that he remedy, what
to him was, a grand issue. Thus the day begins, not with juice, but a lesson in
scrubbing the floor – and why one must not draw on it.
The situation would almost be
comical if it were a one off. But it is not. This is far from the first time such
a lesson has needed to be taught. Most likely it will not be the last. She is
weary of going through these motions day after day; trying desperately to get
through to a child who does not understand. Not because he means to be
difficult, but rather is ignorant of the fact that he is. To him these actions
make perfect sense. The puzzle is hers.
With bladder demanding attention, she
retreats to the serenity that is a small room with a locked door. Or rather it would
be if the floor underneath were not victim to a large puddle. The growing aroma
does little for relaxation either. Semi-resigned to the facts she takes a long
strand of paper and begins the clean up. At floor level another test awaits.
Scrunched up, peeking out from behind the toilet bowl, two pieces of soiled
paper announce their presence. He cannot see the problem with this picture. Her
composure is beginning to evaporate.
With breakfast over, the next challenge
comes into view. Pushing down growing resentment, she arms herself with his
toothpaste and brush. Left to him, the paste would soon be discarded down the
plughole. Bristles and enamel would remain strangers. There is little
satisfaction to be had in watching him squirm and cry out at pain the majority
of folk would not even feel. Some things just need to be done whether appreciated
or not. His yellow teeth are neither attractive nor healthy. This is no time to
let emotions rule.
Grateful to be done with that
exercise, she busies herself with the day’s tasks. Withdrawing to the bookshelf
in the corner of the room, he is content to sit and take notes about his
favourite vehicles. The book already has a contents page but not nearly as
detailed as the one he is constructing. For now calm is back on the throne. Perhaps
today will be better.
The illusion of peace is shattered
upon stripping his bed. Hidden in the
pillowcase is a conglomeration of all sorts; toy cars, strange messages
scribbled to who knows who, bits of junk, and in the middle of it all a twenty
dollar note. She wants to be sick. Her skin crawls to think that her own flesh
and blood is capable of such sneaky theft. Every time something has gone
missing lately - he has stolen it. Only two days ago he had vehemently denied
knowing anything about the mystery of the missing money from her purse. She had
pressed him and provided ample opportunity to confess. Though she suspected guilt,
there was little choice but to offer the benefit of the doubt.
Fighting the urge to slap, she
hands him a wooden rolling pin - to be held out, at arms length, for five
minutes. Wailing and gnashing of teeth ensue. Two minutes later he is begging
to be granted reprieve from the consequence. What is this for? His mind genuinely cannot fathom how the
penalty will prevent a repeat offence. Weary from all the drama she reminds him
that stealing is wrong, desperately hoping that maybe this time he will comprehend.
He wants to argue and insist that she does not love him. He would be better off
dead. Hope is at an all time low.
Emotions twisted like an unsolved Rubik’s
cube she feeds him a sandwich and sends him outside to play. He stubs a toe on
the door frame, crying out in angry pain. Rushing to help and offer sympathy,
she is rewarded with a low growl. Shoved away to be the helpless witness of
self injury and hurtful, degrading words turned inwards. The irony of how one
so needing help can fail to see the love extended to him. A riddle she has no
answers for.
Trapped in a cruel maze without an
exit, will she ever be able to relate to this foreigner who is her own flesh
and blood? The question grates at her very core. This does not belong in dreams
of motherhood.
An hour passes. It is time to come
in. The strong scent of urine enters the kitchen before he does. Surely not
again!
Good emotions, like patience and
love, are all but used up. She takes a deliberate breath, in and out, big and deep.
Mustering up the strength to make what little is left last until bedtime.
Putting it out there, it is spread incredibly thin - painfully full of holes
and so very fragile.
The child is sent for a shower. A
check up, ten minutes later, finds him naked, unwashed, and perched atop the
bathroom basin.
Eyes wild, voice strained, the
tension tumbles out at frightening speed. She knows she is saying these things;
it is her voice doing the screaming. Able to hear it all but so powerless to
make it stop. Eyes stinging with backed up moisture she runs away. Anywhere
will do. Crouching down in the solitude with her back against the cool metal of
the laundry tub, the salty torrent pushes through the dam wall around her
heart. It comes so quickly, the intensity catches her off guard. She presses
her face into her knees in a futile attempt to stifle the hacking sobs. At last
she must come up for air or be suffocated by the sheer emotion.
Quieter now, breathing steady, the
tears slow to a trickle as she offers heaven a desperate prayer. Finally able
to admit out loud that she does not even like this child called her son; much
less herself for her seeming inability to love him. Another wave hits hard…
Looking up a silent figure stands
watching. How long has he been there?
“I love you Mum,” he says. “I
don’t know what’s making you cry or why you’re so upset.”
The blank expression on his face
confirms this fact. And then he is handing her a piece of roughly folded paper.
“To write what’s troubling you
down. When you are finished you can give it to me and I’ll help you.”
In a rare moment he comes and snuggles
in close. Offers his favourite cuddly friend; the keeper of his secrets with
threadbare patches to prove it. It is the most loving gesture he knows. These moments are rare treasures. They are precious
pearls to be tucked away in the heart for later - for the gaping of the in
between.
Singed emotions melt. Hope sprouts
in a bruised spirit. This mess called motherhood is worth the struggle after
all. It matters little that she does not yet possess all the answers. Glory
waits patiently for those wading through the mud. For now grace is enough.
Tomorrow will bring a fresh sunrise. A chance to start over - to begin again.
Taking each day moment by moment, if necessary, she will triumph. Just as the
child deserves a hundred second chances, so does she.
