I jumped from the bed and darted to the bathroom, tripping over his shoes and nearly face-planting into the carpet. I caught myself against the wall, noticing the mess of clothes all over the place. A few were mine—the ones he’d removed last night—but most were his.
Two pairs of jeans were on the floor in front of the hamper; his socks, boxers, pajamas, and shirts were strewn like confetti all over the place. I frowned at the mess, but decided to ignore it for now in favor of taking a quick shower.
Though I did mutter to myself as I waited for the water to heat up, “What is so hard about putting clothes in the hamper?”
Ten minutes later, I was showered and dressed and feeling like it was Christmas morning. I quickly walked to the living room and was about to call out to see if anyone was home, but I abruptly lost my ability to speak.
The apartment was a disaster.
A consummate disaster.
If mess-making were an Olympic sport, this mess would have won the bronze medal, maybe the silver.
Apparently, every toy Grace and Jack owned was scattered—again, confetti style—all over the living room. The cushions had been pulled from the couch. Grace must’ve been painting at the coffee table—which I never allowed—because the water jar for her paint brush had tipped over. Dirty brown water had spilled all over the carpet.
Breakfast plates and cups were where the sofa cushions had once been. Three boxes of miscellaneous cables and broken machinery—which, last I knew, were in storage downstairs—were spread out on the dining room table along with Greg’s soldering gun and the kids’ toolboxes.
A stack of clothes, clothes I’d just folded the day before yesterday, were piled in a disordered jumble by the entranceway.
I closed my eyes against the visually violent mess assault. I was afraid to check the kids’ rooms or the kitchen. I felt like crying.
I might have just slept for twelve hours, woken up refreshed and reinvigorated, but this chaos had effectively undone two and a half days of work. My knitting group was coming on Tuesday. I’d been so careful about keeping everything clean.
Pragmatic me knew, in the scheme of things, it was no big deal. It was just a mess. My friends wouldn’t care. I could clear the dishes, replace the cushions, and push the toys to one side of the room. I could strong-arm Grace and Jack into putting their belongings away tomorrow. I could refold the laundry while listening to an audiobook. The carpet would be stained . . . so what? It happens. Shit happens.
And yet, why was it necessary for shit to happen all over the apartment I’d just cleaned? Why couldn’t they have shit outside?
The front door opened and I shook myself, trying to figure out what I should do and who I should be. Defaulting to pragmatic me was easiest because it was where I lived most of the time. I was good at bottling my frustrations and disappointments, especially when they didn’t really matter.
Later, I would scream into my pillow. I would run thirteen point one miles while the kids were at school. I would go to the gym and beat the stuffing out of a punching bag. I would work out with one of the other black belts at my mixed-martial arts studio.
But, pragmatically speaking, right now—right before Greg left again for the airport and disappeared for the next four months—was not a good time to be angry. I endeavored to soothe the angry, feverish fire ants in my brain.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. . . and repeat seven thousand times.
Grace jogged into the apartment and made a beeline for the dining room table. She fished around in one of the boxes and pulled out two coils of copper. She was wearing a welding mask; it was pushed up and away from her face.
A welding mask . . . ?
“Grace?”
She stopped short, searching the apartment and grinning widely when she spotted me.
“Mom! We’re making something for you. Come see!” She turned on her heel and sprinted out the front door.
I picked my way through the toys, stepping over partially constructed Lego buildings and a discarded muffin wrapper surrounded by a halo of crumbs. Clearing the obstacle course, I left my apartment in my bare feet and found Grace propping open Professor Matt Simmons’s door. She waved me forward and I followed her through Matt’s apartment to the balcony.
What I saw then would forever be etched on my brain.
Everyone was wearing welding masks, Greg, Matt, and Jack. Which was a good thing, because Jack was welding.
That’s right, eight-year-old Jack was welding.
Granted, Greg was helping.
But Jack was welding.
It was too much. I lost my mind.
“Stay here,” I ordered. I grabbed Grace’s mask and marched to the balcony door.
I knocked on the glass, loud enough for them to hear. Matt turned his masked face to the door and waved cheerfully. I glowered at him. He dropped his hand. He moved to Greg and tapped him on the shoulder, then pointed at me. The welding gun turned off, Greg glanced over his shoulder. He waved. I glowered. He dropped his hand.