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Lost in his embrace, it starts to sinks in.
The reality has hit like a looming storm.
And just like a crack of thunder, I let out a startling scream which rushes straight to my heart, forcing my brother to embrace me tighter and shield me from the pain.
My husband is gone.
My son’s father is dead.
I am alone.
There is chaos in the room, a madness which can only be tolerated for a few minutes before you’re forced to sneak away and seek solace behind the glass doors.
It’s called—daycare.
Today is no ordinary day. I’ve been dreading this event since a yellow note came home in Andy’s backpack three weeks ago. A tiny piece of paper announcing ‘Bring Daddy to Daycare Day.’
I mean, really, what the fuck? Who the
hell thought this would be beneficial to young children?
It’s bad enough Hallmark has staked their claim in the world, forcing consumers to celebrate an array of occasions, and if you didn’t tick the box of being in a relationship or are short a parent, you’re left to feel like the worst person in the world.
This is who I’ve become.
Not only that, preschool-age children have short attention spans. Asking them to sit on a rug while some lucky kid explains how awesome their dad is because he’s a police officer who fights baddies, is asking a lot of the twenty-odd children inside the room.
The second I read the note, my cell goes into overdrive. My overprotective brother wants to make sure I’m okay, and he has to open his big fat mouth causing my parents to worry. You would think I’d be used to it by now, the constant fretting over my well-being.
I’m fucking fine.
Just like the song says, Always look on the bright side of life.
Well, the bright side is this ugly orange wall I stand against as I watch the room quickly fill up with parents. Dads every which way you turn. Several are happily playing with their children, some are dressed in suits like my brother, and others are dressed more casually—those are the stay-at-home daddies. You can spot them a mile away. They carry around a backpack like it’s loaded with explosives only to know it’s full of diapers, wipes, and other emergency items to keep the boo-boos away.
At least they aren’t wearing overalls. Ugh.
It’s no surprise police-officer dad is getting the most attention. When it comes to men in uniforms, the single mothers inside the room hover around them like leeches. Are we at daycare or a Tinder meet-up? It’s amusing to watch, especially when you see them strategically try to adjust their blouse to show more cleavage.
I start to lose circulation in my leg as Andy clings to me for dear life, hiding his face in fear, aware of the unusual activity around him.
“Why isn’t my grandbaby runnin’ round like the other kids?”
Taking a deep breath to calm my annoyance, I turn to face Mary Jean, Andy’s grandmother. She’s borderline getting on my nerves. As far as mothers-in-law go, I guess I should count myself lucky, although she hovers over Andy like he’s an abandoned baby bird. He has a mother, me.
“He’s a little shy now, Mary Jean. Give him a moment.”
“Don’t know why ya put him in here. Told ya to move close to home, and I can take good care of him,” she rattles on.
She waits for an answer, but I don’t give one.
Geographically, the distance is welcoming. We mainly see her on holidays when she flies to LA or the one time we flew down south. Though, the death of her son impacted her so greatly, her knock on my door happens more often than I’d have liked.
And I mean way too often.
Mr. Lugo, a young male teacher, enters the room. Mary Jean adjusts her blouse, yanking it down to reveal her very full bust. Quickly pulling out her compact, she checks her face and teeth. For a fifty-something-year-old woman, she definitely doesn’t show her age. Her bleach-blonde hair and bright blue eyes give her a youthful elegance. She is a firm believer in homeopathic remedies and weird-ass creams which take years off your life if you apply them every night.
Aging isn’t in her vocabulary, and neither is the word ‘privacy.’ Every time she stays with us, I find her rummaging in my closet. At first, I was polite and gave her some items, even though she is slightly bigger than me, but that isn’t an obstacle—it only means she flashed more skin than necessary. Then, she got on my nerves. My closet is my haven—nobody touches it. Charlie and Eric are the only exceptions.
