Sarcasm isn’t helping my nerves, but coping is coping. I’m calling it a win.
We got lucky with this house, especially since I bought it without seeing it first. But when we arrived a few weeks ago, we loved it right away. It’s an open concept, modest home, and it’s absolutely perfect for us. The living room is in the frontof the house with a large window on the first floor. The newly remodeled kitchen and half bathroom are also on the first floor, along with the laundry room of every mother’s dreams. Upstairs is Noah’s room, a rec room, and my bedroom. What solidified my love of this home was the master bathroom and walk-in closet. That jetted tub has hosted many bubble bath parties for me.
“Mom!”
“I’m right here!” I call out.
I juggle my folder of resumes, purse, coffee, and keys as Noah opens the door for me. This house may be nice, but damn that front door. It makes the most ungodly loud creak when we open and close it. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, but worse.
Rushing out into the dry heat, sweat instantly gathers in every crevice of my body. I swear, Texas only has two seasons. Summer and warm winter. Right now, at the end of August, it’s like the devil himself turned up the thermostat in Mystic River.
With this heat, I should’ve purchased a house with a pool.
I brush Noah’s hair out of his eyes. “Thanks, little king.”
“Mom,” he grumbles. “I’m not a little king.”
“Right.” I nod my head once, feeling sufficiently chastised by my six-year-old.
Six going on sixteen. Just what every mother dreams of.
Realizing his backpack is unzipped, I move to close it. He jumps back before I can even touch the zipper, but he’s not fast enough for me not to have seen that his backpack is filled to the top with snacks. He turns from me, pink tinging the pale color of his cheeks.
“Noah, what’s all that doing in your backpack?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you planning on feeding an army with that feast?” I tease, hoping to lighten the mood.
“It’s nothing, Mom. Just let it go.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond and stomps off to the car.
Blowing out a breath, I gather my strength and follow behind him.
My white Ford Escape beeps when I press the unlock button, and Noah runs off to get into the back seat. I admire the brand-new car I was able to afford when Rio Flores let me know that he and his friends were distributing Anthony’s and Pierce’s money amongst all of us rescued women. The lump sum was enough to buy the car, drive to Texas, purchase our new home, and still have some left over so I could be at home for a bit and help Noah transition into public school.
“Mom! I can’t be late,” Noah complains as I slide in, dumping my armful of essentials on the passenger seat and setting my travel mug in the cup holder.
My eyes wander to the house next door and the empty driveway. We’ve been here for about a month, and I still have no idea who our neighbors are. I don’t think they have any kids for Noah to play with, or else I would’ve done the brave thing by now and introduced myself. The only glimpse I’ve seen of them is a truck and a couple of motorcycles driving to and from the house at all hours of the night. And the streetlights here are basically nonexistent, so I can’t even tell what color the truck is. Once or twice, I’ve heard giggling women coming and going, so I’m guessing it’s a couple of single men.
Securing my seat belt, I adjust my mirrors. “Buckled?”
“Yes, Mom,” Noah sighs as he points to the strap across his chest.
Should I still have him in a car seat? Maybe. One website says yes, while another says no. And the information in parenting books is just as conflicting as it is condemning.
Don’t get mad at your kids. You’ll give them extreme depression and anxiety.
Don’t feed your kids any sugar. Sugar is addictive and can lead to other addictions.
Don’t let your kids watch TV for more than thirty minutes each day. Screentime lowers their intelligence.
Holy hell. I knew that going from being a captive to a full-time mom would be hard, but I was not prepared for this.
At least in New York, I had people I could lean on. We had to in order to survive. But here, it’s just me. I only have me.
The only real road map I have is of whatnotto do. Walter and Georgia Kelly. Now, they knew how to fuck up a child. My parents were experts. I was supposed to be their prima ballerina. What a disappointment I turned out to be. Thankfully, they can’t do any more damage since they’re six feet under. I’m determined to be nothing like them. I won’t even claim their last name as my own. Rio Flores helped me legally change it to Henry.
Besides myhealthyupbringing, there’s social media, which shows these picturesque moms who read all the parenting books, make the perfect nursery, prepare organic homemade meals, and keep the house perfectly clean. But that life isn’t in the cards for me or Noah.
