Two Hours on a Tuesday Afternoon
The constant precipices are exhausting.
It's 5:15 when I walk through the front door. My husband and daughter are at her lesson. I unpack and snack because for seven hours I've been hearing white women complain about their bodies.
"I'm too old/fat/pasty/floppy to show my arms." they say.
"Even at an outdoor wedding in the South?" I ask gently.
Practicality doesn't register; bare arms are a serial non-starter. Even as my boss and I stand there, ages 59 and 49, with our own liberated arms overflowing with pretty, summer dresses.
I work two back to back days at a boutique and by end of Tuesday, I'm wiped. I don't want to come home and then have to imagine dinner. F knows this. Tonight, he made dinner: a baked pasta dish. There are orange peppers dotting half the top. This confuses me. Does he imagine I like cooked peppers? (I do not.) I start pasta water for my daughter who won't touch baked pasta, peppers or not. She and I both like raw peppers. F does not.
All too soon, the dog starts howling and they're home. Her faux chicken nuggets are in the oven, cucumbers are cut and the rigatoni is almost done. I set the table (her helper job) in order to move things along. And now my daughter is howling too. She's sweaty, desperate for food and upset at something that happened at riding. Get in the shower, I will at her silently. I lure her upstairs with handfuls of peanuts while F knocks the muck out of her boots.
As my husband and I are cleaning up dinner, I learn we were all supposed to have the baked pasta dish! Despite the child liking only naked, al dente pasta, F had the idea that she would eat a cheesy, eggy baked dish. Listen, I'm not even a huge fan, I felt like saying. It was too eggy for me and I eat eggs every day! I look at him.
"And what if she didn't like it?" I ask.
"Then she could eat something else." he says, as if that solved the issue.
She might eat it, sure. And he's right that if the preferred pasta is on her plate, she's gonna pass on the lumpy mass. But I just need the hungry pre-pubescent kid to eat! And I'm bone weary. Give her all the damn pasta she wants already.
After clean-up, I talk my daughter down again. I've been gone all day and she wants time with me. But recently I've been visiting my sick neighbor friend in the afternoon. Today, however, I can only go in the golden hour before bedtime. I reason for a moment, then, running out of time, I try guilt.
"She's dying, Elisabeth." I say. "Can you give me an hour?"
I hope that I'm not repeating my mother's poor parenting choices but it's too late. I'm already out the door.
This morning, I'd set aside a creamy pink peony in a small vase, the new Vanity Fair and jar of Pistachio Almond butter. Now, finally free I walk up, armed against extinction, with the treats. I knock and wait, nothing. I try again. I walk around to the backyard. Empty. I head home and dump the whole lot on an already cluttered dining table.
A Monopoly game is starting. I don't want to play but I have been saying "no" to my daughter for days -- months, if you heard her tell it -- so I give in. I'm a fiend for competitive games but in this moment, I've never been less invested in one. I sit but can't even choose a pawn.
I want to forget that some parents think giving their kids guns for their birthdays is a good idea. I want my dear, dying neighbor to eat something, even though I know food can't heal. I want the blind, ignorant hatred to end. I want my friend Liz's breast biopsy to be benign. I want people to keep wearing masks because they care about others. I want to be present with my child who I haven't seen all day. I want, I want, I want...
These daily precipices are exhausting. I can see why others opt out or ignore problems. Why they suck up the error or just say "yes". Because to act is to open your eyes; it's a step forward. And once you're in motion, it can be hard to say "f*ck it," and scoot back. Or even keep going.
Dumbed by the world's woes, I look distractedly in the direction of my neighbor's house. The sun settles its ancient self lower in a fading sky. My wheelbarrow is rounding the board, headed for home. The last drips of the day fade as I pass go and start all over again.
What’s On My Mind:
“Witnessing elegance,” in a time of ugliness. Gordon Parks, a “groundbreaking fashion photographer,” captured 1950’s Black women dressed beautifully through his Segregation Series…now on my radar thanks to this piece in Jezebel. A lovely, important retrospective look at Black women, clothes and power.
Related: In the most recent episode of Wondermine, Larissa Parson and I talk about reclaiming power in a world which has been designed to exclude. How do we? Why does it matter? Angela Garbes’ new book discussed here (and a {patron exclusive} Wondermine Book Club choice later this year!) talks about motherhood as an act of rebellion.
What I’m Reading and Loving:
A new section dedicated to sharing the non-average books. Suggestions are always welcome. Leave a comment below with a title you love!
Barracoon: The Story of The Last Black “Cargo” - Zora Neale Hurston. In 1927 Hurston goes to Mobile, Alabama to interview a man in his late 80s named Cudjo. He was the last person alive to have survived the Middle Passage and talk about his life before in Africa, after as an enslaved person and later as a free man. A fascinating and important read.
The Swimmers - Julie Otsaka. An eclectic group of devoted swimmers - one of whom is suffering from dementia- reacts when a crack is discovered in their community pool. I’m not finished yet but gosh, I’ve picked a good one (finally). Excellent, thoughtful, sweet and sad read. Wondermine’s June Book Club pick!
My Wondermine co-host, Larissa Parson, and I have launched a Patreon. Details and tiered levels of support (all offering the same bonuses are here). Since Ripe Time is free, this is one way to support my work. Head here for more. Thanks, as always.