“He took it off. He pood in his potty,” Flynn let me know right before he jumped on another cushion.
“Good boy, Lucas.” I ruffled his hair and kissed his head, but when I picked him up to put some underwear on him, I caught a whiff of something gross. There were brown marks all up the backs of his legs and all over the sofa cushion he was sitting on.
Great. A shit-stained sofa.
But such is life with kids, right?
Right.
“Where’s the potty?” I needed to get that thing emptied before it ended up amongst the chaos currently going on in the middle of my family room.
“Boys! Stop fighting. Pick up the cushions. Where’s the potty.”
“Over there.” Flynn pointed. I turned to see Rogue chowing down on Lucas’s poo.
“Rogue. No. Leave.” I moved towards the dog with Lucas on my hip.
“Fucking dog,” I mumbled quietly as I scooted him out of the way and lifted the empty potty.
Obviously, my mumble was louder than I thought as Lucas shouted at Rogue. “Shoo. Shoo. Fucking dog.”
I ignored him, took the empty potty to the laundry, and put it in the sink there. I ran upstairs with Lucas and showered his bottom half before dressing him. I changed out of my pyjamas, threw them in the wash, and then put on the first thing I found.
I took Lucas out to my car in the garage and strapped him into his seat and out of harm’s way.
“Carter. Upstairs. Wash your face, clean your teeth. Uniform on.”
He drank the last of the milk from his cereal bowl and made his way upstairs.
“Good boy.”
“Archie. Flynn. Final warning. Pick up the cushions. Now.”
They mumbled their complaints but did as they were told, which was when I saw the bowls of cheesy Wotsits. They were covered in tomato sauce, and the bowls they were in were tipped upside down, their contents spread all over two of the cushions from the sofa.
I stood in the middle of the room, raked my hands through my greasy hair, and I cried. I watched as the dog appeared and started eating the Wotsits and licking the sauce with his shitty tongue and his shitty mouth. The twins rolled past in another one of their tangles, fighting over fuck knows what, and that was when I did something I never did. I got angry.
“Stop!” I screamed. “Just give me a fucking break and stop for five minutes.”
I grabbed each of them by the hand and dragged them up the stairs so fast their feet weren’t touching the ground. Archie started crying, but Flynn giggled, probably thinking it was just a game.
I pulled them both into the bathroom.
“Just stand there, be quiet, and stop fighting for five fucking minutes.”
I swore at my kids.
I was crying as I shouted at them.
Flynn took one look at me and burst into tears.
All three of us were crying, and I could hear Lucas screaming from his car seat.
I rinsed a face cloth under the tap and washed their hands and faces, then told them to clean their teeth. I put their clothes out on their beds and told them to get dressed.
I took deep breaths and calmed down enough to go check on Carter. When I walked into his room and found him still wearing his pyjamas and playing on his iPad, I lost it.
“What are you doing?” I screamed again. Yanking him up by the arm, I pulled the device out of his hands and flung it across the room. I didn’t even remember hearing it land.
“I sent you up here fifteen minutes ago. You’ve done nothing. Nothing.”
And then I slapped him.
I hit my child.
The outline of my handprint appeared red and angry across the top of his leg, and I stared at it in silence.
I hit my child.
Carter cried softly but never said a word as I stood and stared at him in silent mortification.
I hit my child.
I took a few deep, shaky breaths, and headed to the kitchen to make my son’s lunch. Once that was done, I turned to find my three eldest boys standing at the bottom of the stairs. Their cheeks were blotchy and their eyes were shining from the tears I’d caused them, but at least they were fucking dressed.
“Get in the car.”
We drove to school in silence, and when I pulled into the Kiss and Go zone, I kissed Carter’s cheek, told him I loved him, and wished him a good day.
I dropped the twins at playgroup, and then I went home and took in the devastation left in my family room. For the longest time, I stood there thinking about how it represented my life and the mess I’d made of it. Which led me to thinking about what I needed to do to make it better.
All my life, I’d worried that I would end up just like her. My mother. But I wasn’t like her at all.
I was worse.
I’d already taken the life of my unborn child, and a few hours ago, I’d inflicted physical harm on another.
Something needed to be done, but I didn’t know how to fix it. The more I thought about it, the thicker the fog became, the less clear I was able to see, and the deeper I sank.