The Bench

I know what you’re thinking. Why the fuck would she be crying?? She is on a five day getaway with no kids. Selfish bitch. 

Let’s keep it real, shall we? 

Married at nineteen and for the next seven years that followed, I gave up ownership of myself to a man and the vacancy of my womb gave way to growing five fucking humans, who entered this world through the stretching of my vagina. (and that’s not the vagina stretching I prefer!) 

After 10 exhausting years, divorce began to scream in my face. Ignoring did not make her shut up. Divorce, she was a nagger. Finally, I yelled back. Now, two years in and I control the chaos and am trying to raise five non assholes on my own. 

A serial bomber I have become. Parenting ideologies that I was raised with, without warning I am obliterating. Due to these actions of mine, I'll let you guess how many feuds I have started within my immediate and extended family. 

I am a sports mom, chauffeur to and from, attending four different sports, five days a week. Four of my rugrats are in school full-time and the fifth and final one is in school, two days per week. My email has thousands of unreads and is piling. Catching up is not an option. I am signing forms here and agendas there. I am navigating pre teen hormones at one end on the table and grade one reading at the other. The Irish twins are arguing from across the middle of the table while the toddler is creating potions of soap and vinegar on my carpet. I am a chef, maid, nutritionist, trainer, guidance counselor, referee, snack bitch… what the hell, I’m simply put, the house bitch. I live in the kingdom of five, their kingdom and I am bowing at their toddler sized footprints.

I am building (trying) a career from the ground up while keeping (failing) a 2 storey house instagram feed worthy, all accomplished with a smile that lights up the whole room.          (Because, I am a woman, duh.) 

Jetting off for a break did not make my children disappear. This isn’t a game of freeze tag where they don’t move until I return. Wouldn’t that be nice. Where is Frozone when you need him? Instead, I hired a babysitter to move in and become “Mom.” What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn’t. Fucking chaos. It’s a circus leading up to and during. Kids pushing buttons and boundaries. Big feelings escalate with no time to intervene. The choice is yours Breanna, clean the carpets for the sitter or tend to big feelings? Dear reader, it is a tough choice. Do I choose empathy or societal pressure? 

My mother is shopping. She is trying on a contour dress, it’s black with a plunging V, neck to belly button. Her breasts look fantastic with the sex appeal off the charts. She is giving the Grinch a run for his money with the smile no one can wipe from her face. At 55, she is finally seeing that stolen yet stunning woman emerge. She’s a born and raised “cult girl” too. 

My phone rings for the 4037 time. It’s home. Kid 4 doesn’t  want to go to school. It’s picture retake day. 3 kids get on the bus. One had anxiety induced nausea. Step Dad has to pick up kid 2 and drive them to school. Now the school calls, it’s a dental emergency. Now, preschool. Now the toddler is throwing bottles and cups at the sitter. It’s the first day of the season known as soccer for the oldest offspring. A friend tags along. No one is going to bed.

I walk to the bench in the store, it’s situated by the entrance. A store made of glass windows, floor to ceiling. The streets are bustling with human ants. 

Tears.

Steady. 

I can’t stop them. Silent and constant, cognizant of every one. 

Mom, unaware of my breakdown, is admiring her new found cleavage while I’m holding my head in my hands, stained black from Maybelline, Total Lash Mascara.  

“I just want to go home.” 

The words echo as Mom approaches me and we exit the store. 

I can’t do it right. I’m failing. I am a failure. I deserve a break don’t I? No, I don’t. This is ridiculous. This isn’t how it should be. Why do I have five kids at 31?! Fuck the cult. Fuck the patriarch. Fuck the legacy that follows me. This speedbump I face every single day is tiresome but I don’t know anything different. I can’t get over it. I’m a roomba hitting the wall. Am I exhausted? I thought so but maybe I don’t know what tiredness is. Someone out there has it harder than I do. Stop complaining. These are the cards I’ve been dealt. No, fuck, this is fucking impossible. I’m in a coma. Wake me up. I’m going to wake up right? Pinch me. Scream at me. Grab my shoulders, shake me aggressively. I can’t just run away and start again. Wait, maybe I can? I’ve created a narrative about it in my head. Dreamy. City girl. Apartment. Art Collector. Nothing out of place. Candles.  That cinnamon apple scent fills the air. No marker on the wall or poop on the floor.  “Mom” is never uttered. I own a crisp white suit and it remains white. 

Four days later, with the getaway over and  “Welcome Home” hugs from my crew, the crisp white suit dream remains just that, a dream.