Single Momming Snapshot: One

What it's like being two people to two people

On Monday morning I rise at 4:30 am. Light a briquette of juniper incense and close my eyes. Observe the erratic nature of my thoughts while waiting for the moka pot to gurgle.  Try and move slow enough to thank the rich brown liquid as it streams into an oversized ceramic mug. Scribble morning pages into a composition book coffee balanced precariously always precariously on one knee. Fast create a post for my Writers Workshop that night as time inches closer to the 6:30 cutoff. Make the post. Compose and send email containing the correct Zoom link. Check and recheck the prompts to make sure they are good enough. Right enough. 

At 6:30 I close my laptop and proceed to my next shift. Turn on the oven to 425. Unwrap four orange rolls and two cinnamon from the freezer. I discovered you can make one can of $5 dough last a week if you snuggle the rounds into cling film and store them in the freezer. I use turquoise washable towels to tidy as I wave my magic mess around the kitchen. We stopped buying paper towels two months ago. The main misses are pet clean-up and ground meat grease dripping collection. But we wash a lot and manage. These small changes make me feel proud. 

At 6:45 I start packing lunches and rouse the troops. Empty the moka pot and start another brew to seal into a glass jar and take to work. It’s taco night and they’re always starving after school so I check the directions for rice for the bilionth time and add a cup of water to a medium saucepan I should probably replace. Wait for it to boil and measure out the rice so I don’t forget how much. Set a timer for orange rolls and cinnamon rolls so I don’t forget and burn. I know how merciless my headvoice gets when I make a mistake and have to start over. Monday is too soon to set my headvoice to that particular frequency. 

The amount of preventative measures I must take just to keep from ruining food each day is a full time job. At 6:48 I click on the dog’s leash and hurry her down the stairs. Leaving my phone on purpose because I need to remember to breathe in the air. Line my nostrils with pollen and cut grass and curl my ears back down my scalp. Look up at the sky and remember how it is. Think about my poor dog who never gets to go on long walks anymore. Whom I am always rushing to do her business. And feel a pang of guilt. That old familiar friend. 

We complete our outside assignments and return to the inside ones. Just in time for the oven alarm. The cinnamon rolls are ready but the orange rolls need an extra 90 seconds. I forget to set a timer. I forgot to put the rice in and now the water has been evaporating with no quench. I have likely ruined the rice. 

I carry the girls one by one exhausted into the living room. They moan in teenagery protest. I try and happy them with partially burnt pastry. Which yields limited results.

I pack three lunches and fill water bottles with half-moons of ice. Some stuck-togethers struggle to slot into their metal mouths. Without fail one or three land on the floor free to shapeshift throughout the day. 

Clothes are applied and at least two sets of teeth are brushed. Allergy medicine is swallowed. Flonase upshot. Eyedrops blinked. It’s chilly so I fly down the three flights of stairs to warm the car and deposit an initial load of stuffing. 

Their wet shoes were left in the car which produces a thick blanket of mildew air unfreshener. I take a moment to appreciate that at least it was free. 

They slip the dampened foot covers onto bare feet ten seconds after we pull up at the drop off. I will make an appointment to have the cluster of warts removed from a big toe on Friday. I do not wonder at the origin of the species. 

One of them is too sarcastic to the drop-off teacher. I make her apologize and make it awkward for everyone. Spend the drive to work wondering if I was too hard on her. What I did or didn’t do to make my kids sarcastic at inappropriate times. If it’s a wrinkle that will come out in the wash with the rest of the reusable kitchen towels. Or if I’ve failed them completely. 

It’s 8:45 when I get to work. And I could have already written two novels detailing what it took to get there.

So much was left out. So much happens next.