Mornings in our house are organized and everyone gets up in a happy mood. Birds sing outside, it’s sunny, and I cook breakfast for my loving, grateful children, pancakes with chocolate chips, whip cream, and sausage.
Do you believe me?
What a crock of shit, right? In truth, a portion of that statement is accurate.
I did cook them breakfast, but organization isn’t in the cards, and my house looks like Edward Scissorhands made the meal.
And the grateful children? Assholes. Plain and simple. I feel bad calling them assholes but come on, everyone with children knows from time to time, they are all assholes.
Sunny day? Nope. It’s raining, actually, no, take a look, it’s fucking pouring outside, water splashing up from the sidewalk outside the kitchen window like it’s coming from the concrete as opposed to the sky.
Cash is a monster to get out of bed, and Grady, he’s too perfect and makes me feel lazy.
But I try.
“Come on, dudes.” I pull open their navy blue Pottery Barn curtains I had to have for their room, and they hate. “Mommy is running late this morning, and breakfast is on the table.”
Cash rolls over and buries his head in a mountain of blankets, grunting and kicking his feet. Grady. . . he’s on time for everything. Cash couldn’t care less about school and would sleep until noon every day if I let him.
Grady pops up out of bed, bright-eyed and smiles. “It’s game day!”
See? So much enthusiasm and it’s only nine in the morning.
I point at them. “Get dressed.”
The smells of chocolate and bacon fill the house, but my stomach twists as I walk out of their room and down the hall to the kitchen. Not because I feel sick, but because I don’t like rushing in the mornings. I like things to be orderly and well, smooth.
Have I mentioned lately I like things to be perfect? I do. Case in point, I like Ikea furniture because on the box it tells you exactly how long it takes to put it together.
I like knowing what I’m getting into. I thought, when I married Austin, I knew what I was getting into, but this just in, I don’t always know. Crazy thought, huh?
I pour myself a second cup of coffee and wait. Still no kids.
After yelling down the hall a third time, Grady comes in the kitchen, hair slicked back, football gear dragging behind him. He stops at the sliding glass door, yawning. “There’s another cat at the door, Mom. Can I name this one?”
Maybe I shouldn’t be putting out so much food at night.
I look out the window. Guess what’s outside? Not a cat. A raccoon. I sigh. I thought those damn things were nocturnal? “That’s not a cat, bud. That’s a raccoon.”
“Can we call him Cooter?”
Cooter?
I eye my boy in his black T-shirt that reads Thug Life, and underwear. No pants on. “Absolutely.” I pause for the dramatics, drinking my coffee slowly and he’s hopeful. “Not.”
Cash comes down the hall—thankfully in his football gear—minus his shirt. Together they’re fully dressed.
My phone rings on the counter. Grady picks it up while Cash stares at the raccoon begging for more food outside the door. “Can we keep him?” he asks, smiling for the first time in days.
Man, why’d he smile over a raccoon?
“We can’t keep him. They have rabies.”
“Mommy, Daddy is calling you.” Grady hands me my phone. “Do you think he’s going to come to our game?”
“Probably not,” Cash mumbles, still staring at the raccoon who’s giving them both sad eyes. Like, let me in, little people, and I’ll attack your face, but in a sweet way.
“Not sure, buddy. I’ll see.” I smile because the one thing I refuse to do is promise them something I can’t keep. I pick my phone up but stare at the boys. “Cash, go find a shirt and, Grady, dude, ya need pants.” Sliding my finger over the screen, I fight the urge to answer with a, “Hey, cheating asshole,” but I don’t. Kids and all. Instead, I answer with, “Please tell me you’re coming.”
That’s an acceptable way to answer, right?
“I’m trying.” I can hear voices around him, loud ones like he’s at a restaurant. “What time is their game again?”
Goddamn you son of a bitch!
I know exactly where this is leading, don’t you? “Eleven thirty.”
He’s quiet. Not a word for something like fifteen seconds. Kneeling near the sliding glass door, I try to wave Cooter—yep, named him even when I said I wouldn’t—away from the door and whisper in the phone, “Austin, they really want you there.”
“I know that, Alyson,” he snaps, “but I’m in a meeting in San Francisco. I can’t just up and leave.”
San Francisco. San Fran-fucking-cisco. That’s over an hour and a half drive.
“So what am I supposed to tell them? That you’re not coming, again?”
“I can’t just take off whenever they have sports going on. I have a job.”
Is that sarcasm I hear? Sure sounds like it to me. It’s like he’s mocking me, saying, “Well, Aly, if you had a job you’d understand this. But you don’t so you don’t get to judge me.”
“I know that.” I hear the boys fighting in the garage as they look for their gear. “But don’t tell them you’re going to come and then you don’t.”
And then I hang up on him. Because I fucking can.