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She had that effect when she needed it.
But she rarely needed it with me.
So if she was using it, she was genuinely pissed.
And because Helen wasn't one for being ruled by her emotions, it meant she felt she had a right to be.
I looked around, seeing fingerpaint drawings where I would normally see the fridge they were on instead of the fact that the fridge needed to be replaced. I saw the picture of Helen and I on the beach the night of our wedding, focusing on the way we were looking at each other instead of the fact that I wanted to give her a better wedding than that. I saw the dinner on a plate on the stove that Helen had cooked while humming as she often did, maybe with one of the boys on her hip, yanking on her hair or earrings, instead of the fact that what was on the plate was bought at a discount.
She was right.
It was fine to want more.
So long as you appreciated what you had. First.
"Are you really trying to tell me that this isn't enough?" she asked, the hard slipping away a bit, the hurt shining through.
Because this wasn't just my house, my life. It was hers as well. And she had put everything she could into it, staying up late to paint the walls while the boys were sleeping, getting up early on weekends to hit flea markets or garage sales to snag furniture that she could refinish and fill our home with. She put up pictures and Christmas decorations and made Sunday dinners.
Saying this wasn't what I wanted was saying what she did wasn't good enough.
And that couldn't have been further from the truth.
"No, baby," I said, reaching for her, pulling her close. "What we have here is plenty. It's everything."
"Damn straight," she said, attempting firm, but the smile on her face betrayed her.Helen - 6 years"Eli, get that sand out of your mouth," I said for the fifth time, the words coming out more like a sigh than a demand since there was only so many times you could tell your child that the sand in the public park was likely teeming with cat pee before you kind of just had to give up and save yourself.
I was pretty sure no one died from ingesting cat pee before.
And sometimes, that was what motherhood came down to. Being pretty sure the thing your child is doing has never led to death.
Picking your battles, the other moms would call it.
Saving my sanity was more like it.
I had four boys.
Four.
And another on the way, seeming to prove Charlie right, much to my chagrin. It was getting to the point where I wanted a girl just to prove him wrong for once. But the ultrasound showed another boy just the week before.
If I intended to make it to their adulthood, I needed to care less about the ingestion of potentially disgusting things. Because as they would prove time and time again, they had no intention of stopping putting gross shit in their mouths.
Maybe another mother - say one with only one child - might have rushed over when he started retching up said cat-pee-sand that I told him five times to stop eating.
But my belly was round, and it would take me at least four tries to get onto my feet. By then, he'd be done, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and tackled one of his brothers.
So I raised my coffee, ignoring the sideways look from one of those moms on the bench next to mine. You know those moms. The ones who do everything by the book. No fish, soft cheese, deli meat, or caffeine moms.
Well.
Yeah.
She had one little girl, meek and mild and clearly good at sharing.
I had four rough and tumble boys who seemed determined to break the world record for daily brawls over blocks and trucks and action figures.
I was an old hand at this mother thing.
Those perfect moms could kiss my battle-choosing ass.
I just barely resisted the urge to open up the cooler I brought with me for lunch since my plan was to stay at this park until their father was home to run them ragged until bed and bite into the sandwiches I'd brought with us, loaded up with deli meat.
"Your son is bleeding," Miss Perfect informed me, face pinched upward in disapproval that I hadn't noticed.
"Oh yeah? It must be Tuesday," I said, shrugging, giving it a long second before glancing toward my hoard of hellions to see who was bleeding and from where. A little knee scrape would likely not warrant me getting off this bench. He'd probably rub some dirt in it, taking his daddy's advice too literally, and get on with his day. But if something were gaping or hanging off, I'd have to take a trip to the hospital.
