Mars to Life
Every room in Ally’s home bursts at the seams. The shoes don’t match on the racks and Blu-ray discs lie scattered across the living room floor. There are appliances taking up residence on the kitchen counters like friends that are just trying to get back on their feet. Toys are not confined to designated bins and for some reason there is a shower curtain hanging in the doorway leading to the dining room. Ally’s meek attempt at a capsule wardrobe resulted in needing another dresser, and strands of her hair are like tumbleweeds under furniture and in corners. She hates coming home to her failed minimalism.
Ally isn’t sure what she did to deserve the synchronicity of her daughters napping at the same time, but she freezes in these moments. Should she clean? Should she purge? Should she write? Should she watch a TED talk? She should be productive. She should have something to show for not having to keep two girls alive for an hour. Instead, her indecision sends her to a corner of the sofa and she scrolls through articles about being a more playful parent and op-eds written by adult children who had depressed mothers. Ally uses this respite to make herself feel like complete shit.
It’s the fundamentalist in her.
There is a sudden itch to write. Instead of the routine petrification, Ally opens her laptop and starts a new document in her word processor. She looks out the window at the gray sky casting winter over the trees and remembers when stories used to sprout in her like dandelions. But they are no longer stories. They are children. They are two girls under the age of three who have their own stories growing inside, and Ally must water them. She must be their sunlight as the planet of her imagination becomes Mars, once bearing life.
She types.
My love must be that of the village I lack. Children were once the responsibility of a large and close-knit family, but that has been transferred to the power of one woman. That one woman — mother — is powerful, but only because she has to be. The constant surge of adrenaline needed to get through one day will wear on the body, the heart, and the mind. At a certain point, I can no longer hear my children’s questions or silly songs. I miss the cues to laugh at their jokes or clap when they twirl. It’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I’m fading. I’m dissociating because I have to be here. I can go nowhere else.
Norah cries from her crib. Ally shuts her eyes and takes a breath, hoping that she will fall back asleep.
There are the mom blogs that say, “Be humble enough to ask for help.” And I have asked for help, but the only people who understand my needs are other moms just like me, and they need help, too.
Crying escalates to screaming. Ally walks into the bedroom and picks up her snotty and precious baby girl. She gives her cheese and crackers and turns on a YouTube playlist of children’s songs that is no longer than twenty minutes to make herself feel better. She turns back to her laptop.
Mothers were once lionesses with the help of the pride, but now we are cheetahs, hoping that our cubs will still be alive to feed when we step away (just for a moment) to hunt v4bzgfo.w4h6QCfdhjnbg67\\\\\\\\\\
Norah hits the keyboard and squeals. Ally smiles and kisses the top of her head.
“If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands…”
Norah slides off Ally’s lap and steps toward the television as the song begins, clapping her hands and laughing. Before Ally can finish typing her thought, her husband John walks in the door. She smiles and they kiss. He takes a shower and comes back to Norah and their other daughter Miriam throwing a tantrum on the floor. Like passing a baton, Ally gets up to prepare dinner as John takes over, trying to make Miriam laugh as she slaps his face.
Ally can’t type anymore, but the ideas are still moving through her head as she smashes the garlic cloves on the cutting board and then chops them along with some kielbasa. She’s thinking about cheetah mothers raising their young alone for two years as the oil and butter heat up in the dutch oven. She thinks about how her generation of moms doesn’t trust the advice of their own mothers as she pours chicken stock. She considers how ridiculous it is that she drives to one grocery store for organic milk and to another for tortilla chips.
After dinner, John gives the girls a bath, and Ally sneaks back to her laptop. She opens it, eager to continue what she began almost two hours ago, but it’s pointless. She opens up her browser instead and searches for articles about ancient parenting methods.
Yes, I should co-sleep with my children.
No, I shouldn’t let them cry for longer than ten seconds.
Yes, it takes a village.
No, I don’t have said village.
No, I am not a village.
The internet search becomes a rolling tangent until she ends up reading about ten words that will help her pick the right coffee to drink. Ally hears the chaos of John trying to get the girls in their pajamas by himself. Before she closes her laptop, she makes time at least for a short poem.
Trail of socks hidden
by diapers, toys, and other
casualties. Worth it.
Ally puts Norah down for bed and Miriam is in her room pretending to read Greek myths to her stuffed animals. John brings Ally a drink and they sit together on the sofa, turning on Netflix. Ally surveys the messy living room, the dirty dishes left on the dining table, and half-full cups of milk and juice on shelves and side tables — evidence of life, love, and sacrifice.
