Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
A low unhappy grumble begins. “Is there at least meat hidden in this leaning tower of veggie?”
I slowly shake my head which causes the low mumbles to get louder.
“What’s that?” Mom asks in tandem with finally picking her plate up. “Did you say something?”
“Bread?” Dad swiftly investigates, in desperate need of something high in calories. “Is there garlic bread to go with this, Mags?”
“Of course,” his wife warmly coos while reaching for an additional dish. “What kind of monster serves Italian without garlic bread?”
Should we really call this shit Italian? Wouldn’t they riot in disgust at whatever this cooking channel class project is?
“Not one I would ever marry,” Dad lovingly teases upon her arrival.
She beams brightly, places the bread near him, and slides onto the stool that’s at his side.
I swear she isn’t always the big, bad, waistline wolf. She isn’t always dead set on huffing and puffing and blowing away all my self-esteem.
“I wish we were having grandchildren like Lucy,” she sighs as her grip leaves her plate to grab her glass of white wine. “Unwrapping a box with the sonogram inside would’ve been so,” her hand clutches her dark blouse covered chest, “special.”
Yeah, she’s just that way…most of the time. You know like during months that have at least thirty days in them.
“I always just assumed I would be a grandmother by now. At least to my first grandchild.”
The pause she takes may in actuality be brief yet feels like eons.
Literal.
Fucking.
Eons.
“Definitely before Lucy,” my mother sneers on a snip of wine. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Bernard is a nice enough young man-”
“He hoards cats,” Dad casually inserts into conversation before having a bite of bread.
“However, I never thought he’d get married let alone start a family.”
I’ll openly admit to you that going to all his cat themed wedding events last year really knocked me down a few pegs. Primarily because my mom spent each one whispering shit like this to me but also because if the creepy cat dude can find love, why can’t I? He’s ten years older and ten times weirder and still managed to find someone who wanted to live in holy catrimony with him. What’s so wrong with me? And I’m asking you, not the woman who has a list that she checks twice like she’s fucking Santa Claus for criticisms.
“This is actually Brenda’s recipe,” Mom announces after swallowing a bit more wine. “She gave Lucy this while Lucy gave her a few healthy alternatives to some of the nastier pregnancy cravings.” Her pale blue eyes that she inherited from her biological father swing my direction. “You know I have a list, too…Just in case it ever happens in our family.”
I offer her a forced sympathetic grin and ingest the smallest nibble I can stomach.
Look, it’s not that I hate children. I totally love children. I love them so much that I have literally worked with them my whole life. Babysitting. Tutoring. Lifeguarding. Birthday party hosting. Nannying. Tumbling guide. I absolutely want children of my own someday. And it’s not like I didn’t want them then when the possibility was there. It’s not like that shit wasn’t in the plans despite his privately spoken indifference. However, sometimes – through no fault of our own – plans change. Life changes. And the change isn’t always a predictable one.
“Can this dish never happen to us again?” Dad slyly shifts the subject with a point to his meal. “At least not without more cheese.”
“Charles!” my mother fusses his direction causing him and I to immediately snicker.
See why I love him.
“So, how’s the book coming along, sugar?” Dad reaches for the small tub of parmesan that’s in the middle of the table. “You refused to talk about it on Christmas – I assume to not steal the spotlight from the baby news – but that doesn’t make it not important or even less important than what they announced.”
“Come on, Charles, it’s not nearly as important as bringing life into this world.”
“Maybe it is to our daughter.” My father swiftly argues while dumping a spoonful of cheese on my food for me. “And maybe this book is her bringing life into this world in a different way. Have you ever considered that?”
Writing and illustrating a children’s book is something I’ve been trying to do since my freshman year at Clover Rose University. Keyword to take away from that is trying. See, back then, it was just one of those things I doodled and daydreamed about while ignoring my Writing and Culture’s professor who – by the way – never included women nor people of color in his teachings. I loved the idea of my own children holding something that I created. Something that they could pass down to their own children. I wanted them to be proud and able to say to others ‘look at what my mother accomplished.’. Regardless of how overly critical of my existence my own mom is, I love that she’s accomplished so much in her life. She’s one of the best surgeons in her field and one of the top ones at her hospital. She’s got accolades hung in expensive frames all around her office as well as a growing collection of medical periodicals she’s contributed to. And Dad? I’m very proud of him as well. He’s a blue blood. A lieutenant now with more responsibilities than his paycheck could ever cover. It’s not an easy gig, even at his mainly administrative level. There are always cases and crimes and people who are quick to point out your every minor mistake while just disregarding every life you’ve ever saved. It’s a thankless job, especially when you’re on the cleaner side of things, yet he does it and keeps doing it because he believes that human life, human rights matter. He often tells people blue bloods are boots on the ground while those that sit in congress or the senate try to figure their shit out. He knows the world isn’t black and white or even fair but does his best to do what’s right in spite of the bullshit. The admiration I have for them both…is admiration I want my own little ones to have for me. During my college days and even the first few months out, I kept working on the book, but once Chris Garrity, my now deceased fiancé of three years, entered my life, I completely stopped. And the only reason I started again is because all the experts my mother more or less forced me to speak to said focusing on a project would help the healing process. They claimed it would give me control over my life again. Give me a new purpose outside of work. A new vision. Allow myself to plan for the future I wanted. Truth? The only thing working on this book has done is give me an excuse to buy more wine, which I didn’t need. My mother is reason enough.