“Mommy, I want juice!” Vincent demands. I turn from the stove to face him. “I just got the milk you asked for. Drink that.” I turn back to stir the rice. “No. I. Want. Juice.” He bobs his head as he annunciates each word. “Then why did you ask for milk?” I ask, defeated. I don’t expect an answer, and I don’t get one as I take another sippy cup from the cabinet and open the refrigerator. “My juice!” he says excitedly, as though we had been searching for it for hours.
I pour juice into his cup, but he insists on putting on the top himself, which results in juice spilling onto the kitchen island and his shirt, but at least it doesn’t make its way onto the floor. With the top securely fastened, he takes several big sips. “Thank you, mommy,” he says as he puts the cup down and goes back to eating his graham crackers. “You’re welcome, honey bun.”
The timer goes off. Is that for the pasta or the squash? I’m cooking two different meals at once because it’s my only free evening this week, and Josh won’t be home for another month. I was hoping to have more prepared before picking up Vincent from daycare. I take out the squash that’s been in the microwave and poke it with a fork. Still firm. I put it back into the microwave and add another three minutes.
“Mommy, wanna play with me?” Vincent asks, his hazel eyes round with anticipation as he hops off his stool. “In a minute, honey. I have to finish dinner.” “You have to finish dinner?” he repeats.
My phone dings — it’s a text message from my mother. It dings again. And again. Now I’m in a group chat about the coffee table she stenciled. On the stovetop, water starts to boil. I pour the pasta into the water and turn down the burner. Vincent finds a firetruck and a tow truck and begins racing them around his tracks on the floor. I stir the rice. Ding!
Mommy, I still hungry.” That distraction didn’t last long, I think. “The pasta is almost ready, honey. Then you can have some pasta with pesto.” This gets his attention. There aren’t many things Vincent loves more than pesto. “Pesto!” he shouts, wiping a hand through his hair. Graham cracker crumbs fall from his blonde curls, reminding me we still have to do bath time.
Ding! My aunt raves about my mother’s stencil work. Ding! My cousin agrees — it looks professional. The timer goes off again. “Mommy, I want pesto!” “Ok, honey. Just give me a minute.” “I want pesto. I want pesto.” Ding. Ding. Ding.
…
I pull the lasagna pan with the squash in it out of the microwave, but I move too quickly. The water from the bottom of the pan splashes onto my leg and all over the floor.
The pain is excruciating. “Ouch! Jesus! Oh my God!” Vincent looks at me, horrified. “Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch.” I grab the dish towel off the oven handle to dry off my leg and the floor. Then, I open the freezer to find an ice pack. Vincent looks like he’s about to cry. “What happened mommy? You got a boo-boo?” I hold back my own tears. Motherfucker, it hurts. Why is Josh never here when I need him? I can’t do this on my own.
“It’s okay, honey. Mommy burned herself, but it’s okay. It just hurts.” “Mommy bourned herself?” Vincent’s over-annunciation makes me smile for a second. “Yes, but I’m going to be okay.” I go to the linen closet to get a towel so I can tie the ice pack around my leg.
“Why don’t you get your truck puzzle?” I suggest. “Truck puzzle?” Vincent repeats before waddling toward his room. This should give me at least five minutes. With the ice pack securely in place, I bring the lasagna pan over to the sink and carefully dump out the water. I stuff the squash with the rice, bean, and onion mixture I’ve already prepared and place it in the oven. The pasta is finally done. I pour it into a colander and take out a bowl from the cabinet just as Vincent comes back into the kitchen.
“Are you ready for your pasta with pesto?” I ask. “Yay!” Vincent does a little hop before climbing onto his stool. Ding! Ding! Ding! I switch my phone to silent and sit on the stool next to him, too exhausted to eat.
Four more weeks.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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