art by daniel danger; keep art alive
We all want answers, easily drawn maps and charts that lead all the way to the last page of the book, and the predictable happy ending. Is there not a part of us that still hold some of those fairy tale stories to be true? That some nights when we toss and turn in sleepless anxiety, worrying over budgets and college funds and pre-school selections, do we not hold our breath for even just a second hoping the slightly older and carb-friendly fairy godmother will appear making everything alright? When faced with ditched classes, wet beds, and throw your body to the ground tantrums I know that I have harbored that fleeting wish that Alice will take my hand and lead me out of this upside down bizarro wonderland of being a grown-up; or that like Dorothy I will wake up from all the catastrophe and chaos to find only compassionate faces around me, nodding in understanding when I recall the troubles I had seen that they all held a role in. "And you were there, and you, and you."
The thing is, even if I found that my red shoes (that are really black) could click-clack together and get me the hell out of here, I think I would shove them off to the nearest thrift store, and stay. I would want to hang on to the parenting play-by-play book, though.
I cannot think of a harder job I have ever held, or heard about, then being a mother. Add to it the adjective, or really the active verb, of being a working mother and you are definitely in the hardest job ever category. That guy on the Discovery Channel who has that show called Dirty Jobs, where the host spends a day doing jobs that make us all groan in disgust and awe; why do they never send him off to be a working parent for the day?
I can see it now, the commercial break ends and you focus in on the host waking up to his son holding out a busted cup that was shoved in some ancient relic hideaway spot in his room that once contained some kind of milky concoction inside. Watching it you can almost smell it, wafts of sour and rot filling the room, but it does not end there. Next is the slightly older sibling stumbling into the room in a half-asleep stagger, she is holding her favorite blanket up to you as if it were a dying soldier in need of resucitation. At a closer look you notice her clothes sticking awkwardly in places, the new smell competing with the science sippy cup experiment, now adding the Sorry, I wet the bed odor to the mix. Only moments before he was in dreamland, and as the camera pans in a bit closer you see his eyes shut tight in that futile hope for escape, or at least the relief of a commercial break.
The early morning story arc concludes. The new scene looks brighter, kids cleaned-up and sitting around a table shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into their almost smiling mouths. There is the piped in soundtrack of soothing music, the kind you would hear in your Grandfather's old Caddilac, or a hospital waiting room. You know instinctively that he should be afraid, even if you are not quite sure why. Then it is all so suddenly made clear, in the corner of the screen you catch a glimpse, the undead has arrived with their bedhead disaster and zombie-grumble coming right for him. The viewers at home all simultaneously scream Run!
She was once a beautiful girl, you can sense that some of that may still exist under the decaying eyeliner and last minute term paper up-all-night pallor. For a moment she fools him into thinking she is harmless. Reaching over him for the cereal box she begins uttering soft compliments about his hair and choice of dress for the day. The flattery is pulling him in, leaving him at a vulnerable disadvantage, and he is almost caught in her coooing trap of can I stay home from school, just this once?
The last thing we see before the producers realize this is more than one show can handle is the attempt to leave for work unscathed moment. The walk from the kitchen table to the front door may only be a mere seven steps, but everything shifts into slow motion. Each step releases an obstacle to overcome, a puzzle that requires a secret code to pass, and the inevitable search for the missing keys. There is screaming, runny noses wiped on pant legs, while sticky breakfast fingers pull and grab, trying to keep him trapped in their clutches. The escape is narrow, he barely makes it to the car alive. His pulse is still racing as he starts up the engine to go, but by the time the freeway entrance looms ahead the sight of bumper-to-bumper traffic actually seems like paradise found.
Is this the happy ending we viewers have been waiting for? The office looms ahead and our surving host's briefcase swings back and forth in an almost jaunty bounce. There are no more funky smells permeating the air. There are no more teenage mutant girls. The yells and shouts seem to be just a residual ringing in our ears. Is this the tied up in a tidy bow curtain close? Is this a message of hope that no matter how rough our jobs may seem, it could be so much worse?
The show ends with an elevator opening, and our trusty host taking a step inside, proud and triumphant. It is then that we see it. We wonder how we missed it before. The sticky marshmellow encrusted cereal spoon stuck to the back of his suit jacket.
***The real happy endings are hidden and hard to see. They are the tiny moments that we often forget when we are overwhelmed, overworked and overtired. The two youngest sharing a book together, the older one teaching the younger colors and the many names of things. The oldest choosing you as one of her heroes in a place she thinks you will never see. The ecstatic squeals of joy when you walk through that door at night of Momma, you're home! Those are the mis-matched glass slippers and golden eggs we are actuallygifted. Those are the stuff of our own happily ever after endings.
Like a good book
I can't put this day back
A sorta fairytalewith you
L.
you know me, i'm impulsive
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