“You’re all set,” I tell Sophia. Her own bow, just as purple as the one I used to wear, isn’t set in pigtails. She only has one, and her hair is tied half up and half down. The bow is clipped just above a small elastic band at her crown, and her small fingers gently feel for it at the same time a grin stretches across her lips.
“I love it, Mommy!” she says. Today’s her first day of preschool. She’s starting to discover the outer edges of her independence, finding out what she can do and what she stillneeds to call me for help. While she dressed herself today, she still needed help with her hair.
The last three years have flown by, bringing to light the age-old phrase, “The days are long, but the years are short.” Sophia went through a difficult colicky stage that lasted until almost seven months. I eventually had to go back to work, spending my days in the classroom with three to four hours of sleep. The sleep deprivation made me nearly hallucinate. I was clawing through my days, and somehow, with Sophia nearing four years old, I made it out alive. Barely.
“Okay, let’s go have some cereal.”
“Can I have some bananas in my cereal? With theFlostedFrakes?”
I hold back my laugh. “Sure.”
She skitters off, and I follow. We walk into the kitchen where James is at the Keurig machine. The last gurgles of the machine come to a hissing stop just as he sees me behind Sophia.
“Did you want some coffee?” he asks, offering the fresh cup.
“Yeah,” I tell him. I reach into the fridge for the creamer as he sets another cup under the brewing spout for himself.
I got up before he did, and we did sort of a tag team type of morning routine. I used the bathroom while he was still in bed. By the time I got out, he was in the closet getting dressed. When I came back into the room after waking Sophia up, he was already washing up, leaving the closet empty for me to get dressed. It was almost on purpose, us dodging each other while calling it convenience and methodical.
Last night, when we went to bed, it wasn’t…pleasant. I don’t know what other word I can use to describe the friction that never quite gelled into acquiescence. I don’t even remember what we argued about. I just know it was over something laughably unimportant, and then it eventually grew and grew into this mold that started to seize other parts of our livesbesides just us two. It leaked into our home, over the cracks barely being held together. Into the still warm coffee cup in my hand that was meant to be a peace offering but is anything but.
How did we become this? We used to be so happy. There were never eggshells lining our wood floor. There was never this pause, this moment where we held our breaths, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And now, that’sallwe are.
James sets out a bowl for Sophia. He reaches for the last banana sitting on the large fruit basket in the middle of the island while I stir a spoonful of sugar into my coffee. We sit in silence, listening to Sophia move her spoon around. It clinks against the ceramic bowl and the happy chewing noises she makes as she enjoys her breakfast provides a little distraction. One I didn’t realize how badly we needed.
After we rush out the door to make it in time for drop off, we manage to find a spot in the already packed parking lot. We walk her to her new classroom, her hands in ours, and we do the whole first day of school routine. I was lucky her first day didn’t land on mine, allowing me to join James, but now, I can’t help but wish we could find a way to avoid this awkward air between us as we drive back home.
“Did you want to grab some breakfast?”
I shake my head while buckling my seat belt. “I’m okay.”
“Did you want to pick up some coffee?” he offers just as we’re pulling out of the parking spot. The heavy traffic of parents leaving their kids after a barrage of first day of school pictures and tearful drop-offs greet us, and we’re at a standstill.
“It’s okay,” I answer.
The blinker signals right, and James’s attention is focused on leaving without a minor fender bender with another frustrated parent. We manage to get on the road, and it’s a short drive back home.
“Did you want to talk?”
My eyes stay diligent on the road despite the fact that I’m not even the one driving. “About what?”
“Just…anything,” he answers cautiously.
It’s another peace offering. An olive branch similar to the one he gave in the morning with my coffee. But I don’t know how to accept this one. I don’t know how to take something that isn’t tangible. His offer isn’t one I can hold in my hands. Something I can consume or thank him for. And I can only eye it with suspicion.
“I don’t know,” I answer with a diffident shrug.
“Well, I’m here if you need to talk.”
His words shouldn’t frustrate me, but they do. Always just words with no action. This never changes, and I feel the frustration bubbling under my skin. I don’t know how to tell him he can do all the right things. He can make Sophia breakfast, get her ready for bed, read a book to her or take her outside to play with her bubble machine, but all of that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t tell him all the things in my heart. All the thoughts that swirl in my mind are kept in, twisting in a dark tornado I can’t seem to stop, and he’ll never know about it. He’ll go on, thinking he’s doing something wrong. He’s not helping around the house, he’s not doing enough, when it’s the things hedoesn’tdo that’s the problem. I don’t know how to tell him these things without it turning into this huge blown-up argument.
Instead of telling him all this, I answer with a straight-faced, “I’m good. There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I respond.
“I’m Sam. You’re Kendall?”
