Another Sip

 6a.m. The children will be up shortly. Breakfast is nearly finished. Chase prefers pancakes. Katie likes waffles. My husband, Maxwell, prefers his coffee to go. Black like his heart; no sugar, no cream. Me, I prefer my eggs and bacon accompanied by a tall glass of orange juice. I’ve come up with my own recipe: ¾ of nice, brut champagne and ¼ orange juice. Thus, we have a mimosa. Shh, we wouldn’t want the kids finding out that my orange juice is any different than theirs. I hear feet running down the staircase. Here they come. Mama needs a sip. Ahh, refreshing.

Chase and Katie dive right into their breakfast while bickering about whatever it is that children bicker about. I don’t listen. I pick over my eggs while devouring my mimosa as if it were my meal. Oops, all gone. I long for another but I must wait until the children’s bus arrives. Maxwell strolls into the kitchen. Per morning tradition, he gives each of us a kiss on the cheek, pours his coffee into his insulated tumbler, and leaves. I brood in silence behind the loving smile I offer as a wife while seeing her husband off to work. Then I rush the children off to get their backpacks. The bus will be pulling up soon after their father pulls off. It’s like clockwork.

I stand alongside Katie and Chase at the curb as the bus comes to a stop. I blow them a kiss when they make eye contact with me from the bus windows. Chase returns my kiss with a grimace because he’s at that age where he’s embarrassed by maternal affection. Little does he know, I’m just happy to see them leaving. I hurry back into the house. I hurry back to my champagne; forget the orange juice.

I down the first glass to wash away the feeling of Maxwell’s kiss on my cheek. Looks like he left his work phone on the counter. I tap the screen out of curiosity. Messages from his assistant that lack the quality of professionalism flash across the screen. I’m unbothered. I’ve known about the affair for months now. Time for another glass. I like to feel warm and fuzzy before grocery shopping so I can flirt with the bag boy without questioning my dignity and self-respect.

I return home with all the bags arranged between two hands because I refuse to make any more trips to the car. Before putting the groceries away, I divert my attention to the items I’m most excited about: a bottle of chardonnay and merlot. I open the chardonnay first and pour a glass. I need a little fun while putting away the groceries. The first sip is the best.

I reward myself with another glass when I’m finished. Then I clean the house. I debate with myself about throwing the children’s toys away since they always leave them in all the wrong places. But could you imagine the endless crying? I need another glass just thinking about it. I get started on dinner. I found myself in a joyous mood (maybe it’s the wine) and somehow, I ended up preparing Maxwell’s favorite: meatloaf with fresh green beans and mashed potatoes. Look at me, always the loving, doting wife. Even when there’s no love left to dote.As if he’ll even be home in time for dinner. I roll my eyes and finish the bottle of chardonnay.

As soon as the children get home, we begin on homework while I can still be of any assistance. Katie gives me a letter addressed from the PTA asking me to have 70 cupcakes prepared for tomorrow’s field day. The letter was sent out on Monday of last week. Katie has just now discovered it in her backpack while searching for a pencil. I sigh deeply and bury my frustration because I refuse to yell at my children. Then I sneak off to the kitchen for a much-needed glass…forget the glass…I grab a decorative goblet and fill it to the brim with merlot. I sip slowly as I send Maxwell a text message asking him to get the ingredients for his daughter’s cupcakes before he comes home. I finish off the goblet before I proceed to set the table for dinner.

I refill my goblet with merlot before joining the children at the dinner table. Looks like it’s just the three of us again. I knew it. I listen semi-attentively as Chase tells me about his social studies project. By now, I’m beyond the point of intoxication so I really have no idea what he’s talking about. But I nod and “mmhmm” because I’m impeccable at holding my composure. Once we’re all done with dinner, I get the children washed up and put to bed. By the time I get started on the dishes, Maxwell strolls in without a grocery bag in sight. I’m livid. 

“Did you get my text?” I ask with a subtly sharp edge to my tone. 

“I think I left for the office without my phone today. Have you seen it?” is his response. 

He left his work phone; I sent a text to his personal phone. Instead of being confrontational and fighting with him, I bottle up my aggression and fix him a plate. 

He says, “Yes, my favorite. You’re the best,” then kisses me on the forehead. 

I fix myself another goblet of merlot while secretly seething with hatred. 

“Pour me a glass too,” Maxwell calls out from behind me. 

I nearly lose it. “Sure thing, love,” I respond while pouring his glass. 

I gulp all my Merlot down when I’m no longer in plain sight and grab my car keys knowing I’m in no position to drive. 

“I’m going to get ingredients for Katie’s cupcakes,” I call out to him as I’m walking out the door.

I just sit in my parked car when I arrive at the grocery store. I made no list. I had no plan. What kind of cupcakes was I going to make? Would they be from scratch? Should I just use the box mix? Anxiety starts to set in. I look at the digital clock in the dash of my car, it reads 11:36 p.m. Am I really expected to bake 70 cupcakes by tomorrow, at this time of night? A single tear slowly coasts down the surface of my face.
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"Nope, nope. I'm not going to cry," I say aloud to myself as I wipe the tear away and stumble out of the car.
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I stagger to the entryway and quickly latch onto a shopping cart to stabilize myself. I grab a pair of sunglasses from a kiosk and place them over my bloodshot eyes. On my way to the dairy section, I take a slight detour onto the wine aisle. I don't even read the bottle as I put it into the cart. As I exit the aisle, I grab another bottle with a twist cap. I open the bottle right then and there, taking big gulps as I pour the fermented grapes into my mouth. Another sip won’t hurt anyone. 

On the way home, there were a few times that I thought about disappearing. I could just keep driving and never come back. I would never leave my children behind though (no matter how many Legos I step on). Honestly, they’re the only reasons I’m still here. I continue to think about this more while in the kitchen stirring the cupcake batter sloppily. It was late and I was overwhelmed, so overwhelmed that I started crying uncontrollably. I cried for about a minute then I swallowed my sadness and wiped the tears from my face with a dish rag as I heard footsteps creeping up behind me. 

“Do you want help, mommy?” came Katie’s sweet little voice. 

It’s late on a school night, but there wasn’t much left to do besides pouring the batter into the cupcake tin. 

“Of course, you can help,” I say with an extra boost of enthusiasm in my voice so that my sadness goes unnoticed.

Katie’s face lights up with excitement as she pours the batter over the tin.

“Can I lick the spoon, mommy?” She looks up at me with a twinkle of glee in her eye.

How could I ever say “no” to those eyes? This moment brings joy to me that I have been lacking for far too long. This is what makes being a mother worth all the effort. A sense of peace washes over me. I look at the time before setting the oven,1:03 a.m. the clock reads. 

“Guess we’re pulling an ‘all-nighter’,” I say to Katie as I wipe a dollop of chocolate batter from her cheek. She giggles.