Motherfrakked

“I’m sorry, not today. No”

And just like that he’s down.

It’s like all the bones in his legs melt and he collapses to the floor. His little arms are raised high above his head, which is thrown back in a silent scream. Not silent for long, of course.

The rest of his body hits the linoleum. The cool floor must feel nice on his forehead, I think; briefly; envious. Tiny fists pound the shiny surface, one hitting a dark square, the other slamming an off-white one.

I take a breath. Size up my options. Turn to check the cart and, oh! Heart jumps in chest. Where is …? But there he is: five year old legs pumping, carrying my ‘big boy’ towards the dratted automatic front doors that slide open onto a crosswalk that no-one ever slows down for.

How do you choose between your children? Oo, oo! I know this one: You choose the one whose life is in most imminent danger. You leave behind the one who might possibly survive until you get back. Repeat to fade. I glance at the grey-haired lady behind me in line. I glance at the screaming bundle of my DNA on the ground (I’m so proud). She nods a tiny nod and I turn and dash for the door. I think I see her smirk.

If anything’s going to kill them, I pray as I dash towards the door, let it be old age. Or me. No, I mean “old age”. Definitely not some stranger who’s in too much of a hurry to get to Costco to slow down for my child on the busy crosswalk.

I grab his arm as his first foot breaks the plane of the front door. He swings around, almost flying. Wheeee! We could be in the living room at home, swinging around and around, feet off the ground, gasping with pleasure and laughter. But we’re not.

I frog-march him back to the checkout, wrestle him back into the cart, pick up the sobbing bundle of Three and tuck him, legs flailing under my arm. I never knew I had such strength. I am incoherent with rage. I don’t remember paying the cashier or getting back to the car. I’m pretty sure that if any one hurriedly drove through that crosswalk in their two-ton death-mobile, they were repelled by the powerful force-field of my anger, alone.

On the road -somehow they are strapped in- and everyone in the back is crying. I roll up to a four-way stop sign. The car in front of me goes, then the one to my right, his right, his right until the dance comes back to me. I pull forward to the line, tap my brakes -a vehicular curtsey- and lead off. A moment later and there are blue lights in my rear view. Where did you come from? Can I pull over here and get out of your way? Yes, it’s safe.

But he’s not roaring past me. He is stopping behind me. What in the…

I’m not sure yet if it is adrenaline or a cop’s mind games that make it seem like several scream-filled minutes pass before he saunters up to my window. Fifteen minutes later I’m sure it’s all him. I’m also sure that he has no children, that he has a quota to fill and that he is ambitious. I think he thinks he has a sense of humor as he tells me I can challenge the citation by going to court.

Hating him all the rest of the way home deflects my anger from the two tiny, crumpled boys in my mirror, who have fallen asleep right as I pull into the driveway.

My strength deserts me. I poke the car’s nose into the garage but leave the door open. I crack the car windows and recline my chair. The next moment, I am flying above town, through a clear blue sky, a boy holding on to each hand. We are laughing, tumbling through the cool air; each of us keeping the others from from falling.