The day started out with checking the locks. First the front door, then the fire escape, then all the windows, and back to the front door again. Today I managed to stay in bed until 4:36 this morning. I guess that’s considered progress. After checking the locks, I walked across my mother’s threadbare rug I use to cover the freezing hardwood floors, underneath the arches which serve as the entrances and exits to the living room, and into the kitchen.
Once in the kitchen, I set out one ceramic bowl, capable of holding several ounces of whatever form of breakfast sludge I would prepare this morning, one much smaller plastic bowl with a green monkey etched into the side, and two spoons. Following that, I placed the kettle on to boil, turning the gas stove to low heat, and then walked back through the two living room arches, took an immediate right down the hallway, and entered the restroom where I proceeded to shower. As the kettle was set on low, I knew I would have approximately seven minutes, thirty six seconds before the whistling kettle would wake Eliza.
I didn’t make it in time. You would be proud. Finally, you would say. I’m slightly off schedule. Of course, you never could understand why the scheduling was there. It makes sure everything goes smoothly. It makes sure that the whistling kettle, and therefore my screaming child, doesn’t wake the neighbors yet again.
At 5:23 this morning, I ran through the two arches, made a hairpin turn to the left through one of the doorways to the kitchen, bounded up the staircase, and turned left through our doorway to try to calm the wailing. And then there she was. My beautiful, tear-eyed, eleven month year old baby girl. I flipped on the lights and walked through the deep blue room to the cradle positioned at my bedside. Her wailing didn’t quiet at my approach but she reached for me and after some bouncing, hushing, and pacing with her in my arms, her cries ebbed, returning her to a sleep.
At 5:48, after finally returning my daughter to her cradle for what would hopefully be another thirty minutes of sleeping, I realized the whistling kettle had boiled dry. I tiptoed down the stairs, turning back into the kitchen. I refilled the kettle with three cups of water, turned the stove’s dial to high, and waited for the water to boil. While it was boiling, I checked the lock and door chain on the front door to make sure they were in place.
Once the water came to a boil, I transferred the water to a small pot small pot on one of the front burners. I reached into the cabinets above my head for the remainders of my rolled oats, measured out one and a half cups, and dumped them into the small pot before returning the rolled oats container to its shelf in the cabinet.
At 6:32, as I was plopping the sticky mush into the two bowls, Eliza began to cry again. I went up the stairs, changed her diaper, noting we were almost out of wet wipes, and dressed her in the blue and white striped dress you brought her over in and the little black shoes with the purple flowers on them. Then I scooped her up into my arms, and brought her downstairs to eat the cooling oatmeal.
After a trying hour of flung, sticky globs slowly coating my clothes, Eliza’s hair, and the table as I tried to feed her on my lap without the use of a high chair, I decided that she had eaten all she was going to. I did my best to tidy up the mess with the cooing child on my hip before heading out at 7:48, diaper bag in hand and child in arms, to catch the 7:55 bus on the corner of our street down to Gavin’s Coffee House.
I arrived at 8:24, six minutes early. You’re late, as usual. I ordered a medium cup of dark coffee, wondering if I should order one for you as well. I didn’t. After paying the $0.78 cents and receiving the bitter, black beverage in return, I smiled briefly at the hardly legible scrawl on the side of the cup. Twice a week, we, being you, Eliza, and me, run through this same routine. From the diaper bag to the panicked mornings to the misspelled name on my cup, it’s all exactly the same. But this morning, the biweekly similarities of an impressively misspelled "Alisha Frank" could lend no comfort. Because today might be the last one.
If I can’t prove I can keep up with my rent and maintain position in the kitchen at the retirement home, if I can’t prove that I’m improving, this could be the last time you take her from me. That’s why I’m writing this, I suppose. If I can keep occupied documenting the breaks in my schedules and how I’ve reasonably accommodated for them, maybe the courts will believe me. Maybe they won’t take her away from me. Until the custody has been decided, I suppose all I can do is hope and try.
And if I’m very very lucky, perhaps this won’t be the last Friday morning exchange over coffee. But until that’s determined, today will mark the beginning of another long weekend.
You’ve now stepped into the coffee house, sending a burst of the nipping cold in our direction. It’s 8:38 in the morning. Today is the first day of your visitation weekend. I only have two more days without her.
No comments:
Post a Comment