She is a suburban mom. The boys. Rambunctious devils. Continuously making noise that echoes off the walls of the house. Pounding up and down stairs. Slamming of doors. Ripping the refrigerator door off its hinges. She has no time to think about all the chores that have to be done.
Her days are defined by two bookends of mayhem. The first is getting her three boys off to school and her husband off to work. Starting each day with a litany of instructions. "Don't forget your gym suits." "Your sneakers are in the basement." "Put away the milk." "I'll pick you up at five after your practice."
The second is that one turbulent hour at dinner before they disappear into the den or up to their rooms. In between are those rare hours of "putting life back into order" before she heads off and chauffeurs the boys to one school activity after another.
Then comes an afternoon when she is bringing her youngest son to his friend's birthday party. The son of her best friend. One of her dearest friends, who she had known since university. When she gets out of the car, her son looks at her aghast. "What's wrong, mom?", he asks, "Why are you getting out?" She looks at him, puzzled, "Because Susan asked me to join." He continues to stare, then gives her a sheepish look, obviously embarrassed that his chauffeur will join the party.
Alarms go off in her head.
(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)
No comments:
Post a Comment