Better half

It's the hurry that gets me and I'm not sure why I rush.  Because it's bedtime. Because I'm tired.

No, the real, supersecret, dark truth is that I'm tired of them.  I want the kitchen clean, dishwasher loaded, counters wiped down, sodden leftovers stored. I want it done now while they bounce off of walls and each other upstairs, supposedly getting their pajamas on, so that when I come down, after stories and teeth and a calming round of our favorite John Denver songs, I can revel in the straight-lined, stacked cleanliness.

I need this to write, to think, to breathe free of them for a few short hours.  I want a cleared, wiped table waiting for me. Its deep, rain forest dark brown surface shined.  My computer ready. A glass of water weeping onto the much abused wood.

In my hurry, Nate's desires are less adorable baby behaviors and more annoyances.  "Elp ew. Elp ew." He likes to help me load the dishes. In my better moments, I hand him the rinsed plastic cups and the less dangerous silverware for haphazard storage on the bottom rack.  I ignore his fumbling placement and happily fish errant forks and spoons from under the slimy rubber seal at the bottom of the dishwasher after he is tucked into bed.  In more amiable moods, I let him close the soap dispenser and the dishwasher door, his favorite step in the process. "Cose it. Cose it."  Time after time, I patiently open it again before handing him another spoon to stow half in and half out of the silverware holder.

Tonight, I block the door before it clicks shut and knock it back towards the ground with unnecessary ire.  I ignore his outstretched hands. "Elp ew. Elp ew." My dark fixation on the interrupted task and not the child.

Of course, I knock the door back open too quickly one too many times.  "No, Nay-nay. No, baby. Nazer, no thank you. No close it." Of course, I do.  And it bumps his fat lower lip on the way down, which quivers in more horror and outrage than pain and then drops open to emit not only a bellowing, sorrowful cry, but also a stream of drool spun through with bright, cherry red blood.

It dribbles down his brown jersey, making dark marks as it falls. A scarlet "I" for impatience perhaps.  Or a scarlet "S" for shame.

I call out for Matt, my hands wet and shriveled, covered with dish soap and dinner remains and he swoops Nate away to the couch with an ice cube I've grabbed from the freezer.  I can hear them as I finish the kitchen at last, first words of comfort and then giggling and chatting. When I peek, Nate is seated on his Daddy's lap, facing him, laughing, the bump forgotten. Suddenly, thankfully, I am one of two. Half of the whole.

Guilt is something on which I try not to dwell. We hurry. Shit happens. I forget, wallow in the reminder and forget again.  I will snuggle him tonight.  I will try to be better tomorrow.  That is the blessing and the curse of this parenting gig.  Still, I can't help but think that he won't want to "elp me" forever. He won't care to "cose it."  I'll be both sorry and grateful when his toddling red head is absent from my kitchen at pajama time.

In my best moments, I am my own better half.