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Hurricane Shannon
Age: 38 Zodiac: 
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 Posted: Tue Jun 24, 2008 11:56 pm |
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On Saturday morning my daughter is bored by cartoons, so I turn off the television. She prefers "dramatic play," as they call it at day care. Taking my hand she says, "I'll be the mommy and you be the little girl."
"Okay," I agree, relieved to exchange my identity. She leads me to the sofa and indicates that I should sit on the Mexican blanket concealing to stained upholstery. After pantomiming fastening me into my car seat, she climbs onto the other end of the sofa and rotates an invisible wheel.
"Brmm, brrmm... Christ!... brmm, brmm...Hey, watch where you're going!" she warns, imitating my driving. "Time to get out," she announces, then releases my imaginary buckles and straps.
"Where are we?" I ask. "Day care," she says, tilting her head sideways to explain. "I have to work today."
I'm shocked to feel so abandoned on a Saturday morning- at last we have some time together and she wants to get rid of me. I can't protest. I don't allow her to complain when I drop her off at her cubby with colored leaves taped around her coat hook. But now I feel like begging her to stay with me.
"I'll be back at four," she says firmly, with the air of top management. "Four?" I ask, without adding, "but that's all day."
She grins, waves and walks backward toward her room with its pink bed, desk and bookcase- a can of paint was the only way to make her yardsale furniture match. My guilt gives way to despair. She looks as though she expects me to run after her, but I suppress that urge and the words, "No, don't leave me. You don't have to go to day care anymore. I'll quit my job." Instead I cooperate, as she does, and say, "Bye, Mama."
She closes her bedroom door behind her, so I can't tell what she's doing. Has she climbed out the window? Is she playing with her doctor kit? Here is the silence I've yearned for, free of charge, but I don't want it, not this way. I open her door a crack and she snaps, "Leave me alone. I'm busy." The boomerang of words hits me on the head. Obediently I go back to the sofa, and before I can decide what to think or feel she reappears, looking calm and satisfied.
Gently she asks my usual question: "Did you have a good time today?" I don't answer, just as she never does when we drive home at dusk. Standing closer, she looks into my eyes and says, "What did you have for lunch today?" Again, I can't even make up an answer; it seems so unimportant right now. She continues through my catechism, asking as if it mattered, "What did you do in dance class?"
I scoop her up, pocketbook and all, and hug her, which I usually forget to do at school because I'm picking up her art projects, zipping her coat and talking to her teacher. "I love you, Mommy," I say. She hugs me back hard, her lesson well delivered, and says, "I love you too, sweetheart. And I've got a surprise for you." "What?" I ask, excited.
She pulls a Golden Book out of my old purse and says, "I bought you a book. Let's go home and read it together." "Thank you," I say, for all she has just given me.
"Okay," she says, turning to the first page and sitting beside me. "Now you be the mommy because I can't read."
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