Friday's Thoughts

Once upon a time, there was a naive young bride who wished for a child. She would wake 'round noon, spend a few hours lying in the sun by the pool, then wistfully work at her needlecraft to pass the time. Life was simple and easy for the girl, which bored her fantastically. Dreams of nurseries, lullabies, and soft fuzzy baby heads sleeping on chests swirled in mind and consumed her every thought.

Ten years later, the same tired woman sits amidst spilled popcorn and scattered toys and she wonders, "Will I get to shower today?" Having rousted the children at seven, fed them, clothed them and delivered them to school, she was left to tend to the more demanding two. Both needed to be changed, one was hungry and the other wanted to nurse. The frazzled mother managed to take in a little sustenance while nursing a child, then returned to the demands of the day. The lawn was watered, the clothes laundered, the beds made, the table cleared of breakfast dishes, the kitchen floor swept.

The baby fell asleep ten minutes before it was time to fly out the door and retrieve his older sister from kindergarten. This cut his morning nap short and destroyed his schedule for the rest of the day. Fridays are early-out days and they confuse him terribly.

The toddler was ill and found relief from his discomfort by making constant demands of his mother. By repeatedly calling her in a desperate and questioning tone, but not specifying a particular request, he was able to push her to the brink of insanity and fulfill his own needs.

Exhibiting the frustration of her fatigue, the only daughter in the family proceeded to lament about her torment up to that point-- which was only noon. The cupcake she was given at school was not chocolate, and her lunch was not being prepared fast enough. While she had waited angrily at the front door while her mother released her brothers from their carseats, she had become hot and was perspiring. The line at the market was extremely long and the wait was agonizing for her. She sobbed and wailed out of pity for herself, making a public spectacle in the midst of the crowd. "I want to leave NOW!" She cried, tears streaming down her flushed face.

The relentlessly hot afternoon had clouded over, but even the strong winds could not blow away the intense heat. After waiting in the endless queue of grim faced drivers, lined up outside the school trying to locate their children in the sea of backpacks, the exhausted mother struggled to make her way through traffic and make it home with her eldest son. Upon reaching the house, she hoisted three sleeping children inside, returning between each to carry the next. To her dismay, the baby's rocking swing had stopped. Weighing the choice between venturing back out with the all children in the heat to purchase a few measly batteries, or to stay home and not face the busy marketplace with fighting children, she opted for the latter. Tending to a fussy baby is much less trying in the privacy of one's own home, rather than under the scrutinizing watch of prying strangers.

Despite the negativity presiding over the household that day, the brave mother set about preparing a special meal for her children, in hopes that it would lighten the mood and make for a pleasant evening. She soaked long bamboo skewers in steaming water, then threaded them with tender pieces of marinated chicken and tangy pineapple. While they sizzled under the broiler, she cooked a fragrant pot of coconut rice, lightly sweet and scented with ginger. As the children filed into the kitchen for dinner, she filled large stemmed glasses with frosty strawberry coladas and poked a straw into each one. Three children stared at their food with disdain and asked "What is this?" One by one, three children slipped from the kitchen, leaving uneaten food on their plates and making rude remarks about the meal. Quietly, the mother finished eating while the baby tossed the remnants of the beautiful dinner onto the floor.

Now the children are arguing the living room, while the baby cries in her lap and the toddler climbs her like a tree. She still has not brushed her quickly pulled-back hair, or put on her face. There is no father to scold the older two, or calm the baby so the mother can clear the table. Once she finally has the family calmed and ready for bed, she will sit alone and wonder where her day has gone and where her husband is. As midnight approaches, she will give up waiting to see him and she will put herself to bed. Sometime during the night, she will catch a glimpse of him as his things are placed on the dresser and he slips under the blanket, but she will be too sleepy to be sure she isn't dreaming. Sometimes (before he makes it home) she slides over to his side of the bed, so she can breathe the scent of him that lingers on his pillow. There are nights she sets a place for him at the table, just in case. From time to time she checks the phone to see if she has missed a call from him, hoping maybe he'd tried and she hadn't heard it ring.

She reminds herself that this is Friday, and that (despite all the adjectives and prose) it's just like every other Friday in her family. Whatever the message on the wind is that motivates her kids to convert to Satanism for one day each week, it never fails to make an appearance.

Now this needs to be added for the record, lest some worried reader should believe that this is the constant state at her home. There are days that make her heart feel full of light and her step quicken with excitement for what joy waits for her in the next moment. Just two days before (the day before her husband embarked on his three day trip), was one of those days. The boys played quietly and happily during Heidi's karate class, as they had during Clyde's the day before, and she beamed as other mothers admired the little family. Eric sat in her lap and chewed on a colored pencil, Jack instructed her on what colors to use on the picture they were drawing and Clyde puzzled over a challenging word search. After the lesson, the kids were clamoring for a trip to one of their favorite restaurants, and they even offered to pay for it themselves. Thinking it would discourage them, she took them up on their generous offer. Lo & behold, they actually intended to treat the family to dinner that evening. With a slight premonition of disaster in the back of her mind, she loaded them up in the van and headed out. The family eatery was full of children that night, and most of them were boisterous and loud, save for one table near the back that was serene. The children were seated and eating, talking about how good the food was and how fun karate had been. Even the baby was pleasant, chewing on vegetables and making happy sounds at his siblings. Our young mother presided proudly over them, enjoying their company immensely. From dawn to dusk, it was a wonderful day.

The only constant at this house is the lack of paternal presence. This mother and her children are forced to sacrifice the company of the man of the house to his demanding career gods. She dreams of a day when they can have dinner together as a complete family during the week, and when the kids can tell their father all about their activities at school before they go to bed. She hopes that someday, the children will be able to hug him goodnight, instead of blowing a kiss to the northwest in hopes that it will reach him at his office.

As I write this, I can hear the neighbors enjoying the setting sun from their back patio adjacent to my window. They are together every day from dinner on into the night, connecting with one another and playing with their children. I am intensely jealous.

I miss my husband. I despise the hours the Marine Corps asks of him. I am lonely for his company, his voice and his touch.

Thanks for listening.