Moms Night Out (2 page)

I love my kids. I love my husband, my minivan. My minivan is awesome. I have this incredible life, so why do I feel this way?

Anyone? Anyone?

Allyson read her words over again, fixed a few typos, and then hit “publish” before she could change her mind. Most of the wise and witty blog posts she read had answers, not questions, but she was at a loss. At least she had a few things to look forward to. Today was Mother’s Day, and today Sean would be home after taking a trip for work. His absence often made it harder for her to cope. She smiled thinking of him striding through the front door . . . his arms opened wide for her. Did he realize how much she needed him to hold her up?

She glanced again at the number of page views on her blog from last month: 18. Three for every post she’d written. Sean, her mother, and Izzy (her best friend), no doubt. Although Allyson wasn’t sure if Izzy had read the last post, and her mother had commented that she’d read it twice, pointing out three grammatical errors.

Everyone starts somewhere,
her mind consoled her heart. Her worth wasn’t based on page-views, right? At least that’s what she told herself as tension tightened her gut. But if she got her house clean—that was something tangible. She could see the shiny floor. Breathe in the piney scent. It was a small sense of control in her stay-at-home world. It was something she could point to and give herself an imaginary gold star for. It proved she wasn’t wasting her life. That her noisy, overfilled, tiring days had meaning.

She didn’t sit too long on that thought. It was time for action. Allyson closed the top of her laptop computer and rose. Within a few minutes a new sound had joined the crickets. The clacking of her sweeper on the floor. The scraping of toys as she swept them into a pile.

There, take that,
she thought as her red curls tossed with her effort.

Out of the corner of her eye something caught her attention. The first pinkish light of dawn pushed through the kitchen window and beamed like a spotlight on one pink sock. The sock taunted her. “Do you see me? Are you going to leave me here? There’s more mess from where I came from, you know.”

She pushed the sweeper with fervor toward the sock. Her eyes widened as she noticed the block behind it. And the Matchbox car.
Swoop.
A dozen crayons, broken and scattered. She pushed them along too. It was as if Hansel and Gretel—or in her case Brandon, Bailey, and Beck had left a trail of bread crumbs, or rather toy box droppings, for her to find.

Happy Mother’s Day.

A strand of red hair tumbled from her hasty up-do and curled on her cheek. She puffed her cheeks and blew it out of her face. Her hands tightened around the sweeper handle.

Children are a blessing,
she told herself as she barreled forward. She moved to the den, organizing the toys in labeled bins. She moved to the sink next, scrubbed it with vigor. She opened the dishwasher. The lemony scent arose, like a balm to her soul. A clean, fresh scent.

Her hands moved with ninja speed as she tucked cups into the cabinet.

“KEEP CALM AND MOMMY ON,” the mini-poster inside the cabinet door read, and Allyson set her chin in determination.

I want to believe Mommying is a blessing. I try. I really do. She wiped her eyes. But somehow I always end up feeling . . . like there should be something more to life than this.
The room around her blurred just slightly.

What does it matter?
She thought as she set the sweeper back into its spot in the laundry room. The house was cleaner now. Not perfect, but better.

Still the nagging wouldn’t leave Allyson’s gut.
Will I ever
feel
enough? Will it ever
be
enough?
And the question she’d written on her blog echoed through her soul.

Why do I feel this way?

CHAPTER TWO

Mom!” the voice stirred her awake. Allyson remembered the sweeping, wiping, mopping, cleaning, and the finally clean kitchen. Had she fallen back to sleep after that?

“Mom, Mommy!”

Her eyes fluttered closed again. Maybe she could doze off for one more minute. Just one more minute.

“MOM!!!” Her eyes popped open. She lifted her head and looked at the clock.
8:15.

“Oh no.”

She stumbled out of bed. Disoriented. Voices rose from downstairs, and she followed them. Dishes rattled.
Dishes!
The last time her three had tried to get themselves breakfast there was a half of a box of cereal spilled on the floor and then stomped on, crushed to a fine, fine powder.

She hoped it wasn’t that bad. She rushed down the stairs, her heart pounding.

Allyson rounded the corner and then paused, peering into the kitchen. Her heart sunk. It was worse. FEMA worthy.

All three kids stood on chairs at the kitchen counter, with nearly every dish she owned spread before them. And in the middle, her giant punch bowl was filled with . . .

Oh no, oh no.
Allyson’s eyes narrowed. She rubbed them, refusing to believe what she saw.

“Surprise!” Brandon called at the top of his lungs. “We made you eggs!”

“With sugar!” Bailey chimed in, a silver tiara topping her head.

And with everything else in the kitchen,
Allyson wanted to add, seeing the contents of her cupboards strewn all over the house. Her almost-perfectly clean house.

Three faces, three smiles, and Brandon stirring the raw eggs faster and faster, splattering as he did.

Allyson’s lips pressed tight together as she took it all in. Hours. She’d given up hours of sleep . . . only to have her efforts destroyed.

“Mother’s Happy Day!” Bailey called in a squeaky voice.

Allyson’s mouth opened. She paused, trying not to have a panic attack. She knew it was a thoughtful, caring gesture. Instead, all she saw was salmonella.

Salmonella on the kitchen counter.

Salmonella on the handrail to the stairs.

Salmonella on the floor, the children. And for a salmonella phobia, it was her worst nightmare.

She thought back to last week. The same panicky fears had swept over her when Bailey had dropped her Barbie in a bowl of raw eggs. She’d burned it, not realizing it was Bailey’s favorite doll, and she did feel bad about that, but that was then. This was now.

Allyson picked up the pump of hand sanitizer on the side table. “Okay, we—we’re, we’re going to play a little game. Everyone freeze!”

They did. Six hands jutted into the air. Raw egg dripped down their arms. The ketchup bottle Bailey had been holding plopped into the concoction. Giggles erupted.

Then Beck looked over at her with a twinkle in his eye. As if in slow motion, he dipped his finger into the raw egg mess and . . .

. . . and he lifted it toward his mouth.

“Beck, don’t put that in . . . No!” Allyson’s voice rose.

Oh no, no, no. He’s going to eat it. He’s going to put that in his mouth and be one of the four hundred estimated people that die of acute salmonella.
She’d read it on a blog somewhere.

She rushed toward him, but too late. His finger went into his mouth and he grinned. Her stomach lurched. “Oh, here we go. Oh . . . salmonella!”

***

Allyson tugged hard, pulling the clothes off of Beck before realizing that all his diapers were upstairs. “Get dressed everybody. We’re getting dressed!” She tucked her son under her arm and raced upstairs.

Allyson thought she heard the cell phone chiming in the living room. That and the sound of Bailey riding her trike . . . in the house.

Then she heard it. The crunch of the trike hitting the trash can. The sound of it spilling over. Its contents . . . the egg shells. Dozens of egg shells that she’d just picked up, splaying over the floor. Then came the quiet.

***

Sean rushed through the double doors of the airport with his carry-on bag in one hand and his document tube flung over his shoulder. His mind raced with excuses, but there were none. He told Allyson he’d try to catch an earlier flight. She’d wanted him to be home for Mother’s Day. He hadn’t promised her he could, but he still felt bad for not being there.

He’d tried to get his work done faster, but design issues had caused a delay. Then there were the canceled flights. At least he’d get home today. Maybe after dinner, and the kids were asleep, but that still counts as “today.” Sean used his thumb to push Allyson’s number on speed dial as he raced ahead, weaving through the people crowding the terminal.

He listened for Allyson to answer as he pushed forward. He pictured his family. His beautiful wife. What had he done to deserve her? And the kids. Maybe they were all snuggled up in bed. A happy little family on a beautiful Sunday morning. He rushed forward, telling himself that he couldn’t miss this flight. A soft smile touched his lips.

I will get home today. Home to my wife. Home to my family.

Just when he prepared to leave a message on Allyson’s voicemail a small voice answered.

“Hello. How may I Field. Hello the Field. Hello Field residence please?”

Sean hurried up an escalator toward a packed line in security. His bag tugged on his arm. He wedged his phone between his ear and shoulder as he hurried faster. The sound of his daughter’s voice.
His daughter’s voice
brought a smile to his lips.

“How about you try this, ‘This is the Field’s residence. How may I help you?’”

“Daddy!” Bailey squealed.

“Hey, baby. Is Mommy there?”

“MOMMY!!!!! PHONE!!!!” Bailey’s voice rung out, right in his ear, and he was certain then, that Bailey got her vocal chords from her mother. Sean cringed and pulled the phone away.
Loud. So loud.

And as he heard her clomping up the stairs he couldn’t help but smile, picturing his wife’s angelic face. Picturing the home and kids she worked so hard to care for.

***

If there was only one reason to believe that evolution wasn’t true, it was that moms only had two hands. Allyson definitely needed more than two hands to wrestle Beck into his church clothes.

She heard her small daughter’s squeal and laughter downstairs.

“Daddy!” Bailey called into the phone. It was hard when Sean was away. Each day the excitement built for his return. Today was the day. She couldn’t be more thrilled. Then again her husband had no idea what he was walking into. No parent ever did. From day one nothing had gone as she’d expected.

Beck wiggled faster, attempting to break loose. In all her years of daydreaming about a husband, a family, Allyson hadn’t expected this. The tangle of mess, that family was.

“Bailey! I’m up here.” She turned and called out over her shoulder. Turning back she scanned her bed—a mess of rumbled sheets. Beck was gone. How had he disappeared so fast? He’d fled, vanishing into thin air.

“Beck, Beck, where did you go?” She scanned her room, looking for him.

A soft giggle emerged from the other side of her bed, a small form darted past her—too fast for her to snag. She rushed toward Beck, and then paused as Bailey skipped in with the phone and handed it over. “Here’s Daddy.”

Beck or the phone?

She reached for the phone, desperate for Sean’s voice. Even more desperate for his assurance that he’d soon be home.

“Sean?”

“Hello. Hey, Hon?”

“Sean? PLEASE tell me you’re on a flight right now.” She could hear that he wasn’t. The sound of the airport din rose through the phone.

“It’s Mother’s Day. Happy Mother’s Day. That’s where we should have started.”

“Yes, thank you, fine,” Allyson interrupted. “I just, why . . . I need you on a flight.”

“That’s alright. That’s alright. They canceled three flights on me, I changed airlines. I’m taking care of it. I got a direct flight.”

Home. He’ll be home soon.
Allyson released a breath that she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Bailey reentered her room with arms outstretched with a drawn picture in her hands. She tugged on Allyson’s arm with her free hand.

There was something in Bailey’s bright eyes. Joy? Excitement? Mischief? Allyson couldn’t tell, but she pulled the phone back slightly from her ear, giving Bailey her attention. “Yes, baby?”

Bailey’s grin widened. “Hey, Mommy, I made you this.”

Allyson took the picture from her daughter. Flowers and stick figures represented her family. For a four-year-old this was a Rembrandt.

“You made this for me?” Allyson leaned down, her face crinkling up into a smile. The eggs hadn’t turned out well, but this . . . this was thoughtful. Her heart filled with joy as she scanned the figures again—her big stick figure body and three small images with circle heads and three fingers on each hand.

“Do you wanna know why I made you so big?” Bailey’s voice was almost angelic. “Because you love us the most-est over everybody.”

Still something didn’t seem right. Allyson frowned, realizing what was missing—who was missing. “Where’s Daddy?” she asked.

Bailey pointed to an orange shape with wings on the top left of the page. “Up on the plane in the sky, where he always is.” Bailey’s wide-eyed gaze looked serious.

“Ouch, that’s not right,” Sean’s voice echoed from the phone, and Allyson’s heart pinched.

Bailey reached down and picked up a marker she’d dropped before rushing off again. Allyson was about to call to her, telling her to put all her markers away, and reminding Bailey that she wasn’t supposed to have them out without supervision, when Brandon’s voice shot through the air.

“Mom! Beck’s playing in the toilet again!”

“Oh, no, no. Not the potty. Not the potty!” Sean’s voice called out over the phone. Loud, really loud, as if expecting Beck to hear him. Allyson smiled, imagining the curious looks on the faces of his fellow passengers at the airport.

“BECK!” Allyson raced toward him, and scooped him up. His hair was completely wet, dripping wet. He dripped on her. He dripped on the floor.

Pretend he was diving in the tub instead, yes, pretend that,
she told herself. Allyson let her eyes fluttered closed for a brief instant, trying not to think about it.

And you call yourself a mother?