Hidden and hushed is the secret place; the inner knowing, where questions remain unasked, wishes are left unspoken, and worries conceal themselves beneath the smile. We cut the meat and pass the dish, unconsciously nodding to affirm our attention to the speaker; distracted, because the elephant in the room has taken its place at the head of the table.
My finger hovers over the button midair. The anxiety is gradual but manages to become savage as the people-pleasing thoughts begin their invasion. What if somebody is offended? What if I miss a milestone? A birth? A wedding? What if they can't contact me? I won't know what's going on!
"Are you sure you want to delete this account"? The words glare back at me. Nose wrinkled and face set in grimace, the key clicks into submission under the pressure of my touch. I had already made my choice. It was done.
I have circled this island in my kitchen no less than fifty-two times and I swear, there is NOTHING to eat in this place. I am tired, irritated, and after having put the boys to bed, I just cleaned the "you-know-what" off of the side of the toilets and tile flooring. The stool overflowed again. Some days there just isn’t enough Clorox in the world to accomplish the super feats of “Mom”. It’s only 8:00pm. I drag like a weary, homemaking soldier headed home from the battle of mundane and want nothing more than to settle into the respite of my comfy tan couch.
She sinks into the couch across from me and is quickly enveloped in its comfy folds. She is petite, but despite her size, looks fit. Strong. I study her as she begins to speak. Her posture is open and relaxed, yet her eyes reveal more to me than what her positioning suggests. They contain the fire of one who has seen both terrible and wonderful things in this life. Through them shine the persistent light of a survivor...
M.S. in Marriage and Family Therapy. Earns Crossfit participation trophies. Disaster cook. Enthusiastic wife. #Boymom. Clutches her faith, not her pearls.