The other day I wrote this scene that reflects my life in a TRES ‘exhausted mother’ way (French for very because I’m poshly funny but don’t know how to add the little accent on the e). I think I have something here, but my current frustration in the world of writing is not the lack of a muse. I have far too many projects going on at once. Humble brag? Maybe, but it’s not that big of a flex to say in the context of I have a hard time finding time to sit my butt down and actually work on my projects.

Anyway.

This scene is not an exact replica of my life, but rather what I like to call Hollywoodizing my life. Not that I in ANY way have lived a life of dodging fans screaming for my autograph and fainting at the reveal of my next book cover – but in the ‘this scene is very loosely based on life but we had to add drama and make it actually interesting to watch’ kind of way.

Context for this scene: The effect of my miscarriage in 2018 ripples out to this day. In one area, my daughter still wishes she had a sibling. The miscarriage also tore my nerves to shreds. Damaged nerves give a certain spice to life I would be happy to live without, but here we are…

No title yet. Not sure if it will be chapter of something. Work in Progress WIP Scene…

I glanced at the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes, the kitchen table cluttered with worksheets, groceries, some ramdom batteries, a bowl of mints, and socks on top of a tablecloth that needed to be washed two days ago when Freyja spilled grape juice on it; I had yet to gather the fortitude to clear off said crap in order to do so. The kitchen floor sprouted crumbs like a lawn waking up in spring, and I remembered belatedly why a random towel was crumpled on the floor infront of the refrigerator. One of the cats had projectile evacuated his dinner and I needed to spray down the tiles with some chemicals that would make me feel like walking in that spot again was slightly more clean than the rest of the house.

“Tea.” I decided. “Bed time tea.”

It was nearing 8:00pm and Freyja was still watching a show with David. She should be in bed. I wanted to be in bed. My head ached. My body screamed at me, though I could hardly ever discern a clear message, if one even existed beyond, “I’m so tired it hurts.”

The show wrapped up as I poured warm water into my mug. It must have had a sibling because I heard Freyja asking David for the millionth time why she couldn’t have one.

“I don’t know,” he said with a laugh. “Ask Mommy!”

Though I could tell from his silly manner he was joking, and it had been six years since my miscarriage, the icepick to my heart was raw and still slick with warm blood.

She thundered into the kitchen and assumed correctly I had overheard their conversation. She sized me up and immediately went for the coup de grace. “Can we buy one?”

I play gasped. “In this economy?”

Freyja rolled her eyes. “Please, Mom?”

I tossed in the teabag and watch the clouds of color swirl into the hot water. “What if … now, hear me out … What … If … everyone was okay with only children?”

She stomped and opened her mouth.

“What if!” I interjected, “Everyone remembered I tried?”

Freyja deflated.

“What if!” My throat tightened. “I needed to be healthy for you?”

“But Mom-“

It was too late. I could never be too exhausted for anger.

“What if I wanted everyone to focus on YOU?”

Through the ringing in my ears I heard the couch creaking.

“What if!” I shouted over Freyja’s next attempt, “I wished people woudln’t focus on the sibling I couldn’t give you?”

The clattering of Iroh’s claws on the wood floors barely penetrated the static in my brain.

This time Freyja kept her mouth closed, but her eyes were wide as she watched me.  

“What IF,” I shouted, “YOU were enough?”

In the sharpest moments between thought and words, my mind cruely added, “And what if YOU will never be?”

Freyja’s eyes scrunched with unshed tears as her lips worked. “Enough of what?”

“Enough of a pain in the butt!”

David swooped in behind Freyja folded himself over her like a sack of potatoes.

And just like that, Freyja started to laugh. 

He scooped her up effortlessly and bounced around repeating, “Pain in the butt! Pain in the butt!”

She squealed, sending shard of glass through my brain.

Iroh scrambled to join in the fun. Growling and barking in turns.

Loud. So loud.

Noise, noise, noise!

The agony of real life clashed with the victory of mytholgy. The scene in our kitchen became an awful blend of celebration and terror as the fireworks of laughter warded off the evil intentions of what lurked within me.

Their ritual. Daddy swooping in to save the day with laughter and yelling and tickling and squeals. And noise. 

Iroh dancing around the jovial puppet; doing his part to ward off danger as any good dog should.

BOOM!

I dropped my spoon on the tiles. The explosive clatter clouded my peripheral vision as lights streaking accross my central vision.

BOOM!

I rocked backwards unsteadily.

“Pain in the butt!” Freyja squealed as Iroh howled his part.

BOOM!

A surviving sliver of conciousness kept my weak arms from attempting to pick up the mug.

Iroh plowed into the back of my legs as he jumped forward and backward at the large, ritutatlistic marionnette in front of him.

My knees slammed into the cabinet. The yell I attempted got caught in my tight chest and throat and came out more of a growl.

The fireworks did their job.

The dance was nearing an end.

Isn’t good always supposed to defeat evil?

I ran for the stairs.

Defeated.