I’d like to thank Alea Giordano from the USA for her flash fiction submission “Saturday Afternoon”. Inspired by true events, it’s a relatable and raw ode to mums everywhere.
Alea is a working mom of two boys, ages 2 and 4 with one husband, two dogs, and three cats. This story was inspired by the pressure to be all things, a tidy housekeeper, a perfectly groomed woman and on top of that, a perfect mother. Alea hopes the subtle humour comes through!
Saturday Afternoon: A Flash Fiction Story
I ease my way into an unmade bed holding a cup of powdered lemongrass soup and a glass of lime vodka on the rocks. Semi-clean laundry is parked by my feet along with two cats, one orange tabby, and one calico Persian who are sleeping on a crinkled-up duvet cover. To my left lies a pair of golden hoop earrings that didn’t make it to the jewelry box, a computer, and my journal. There’s a dried crusty patch of translucent cherry Children’s Tylenol staining the sheet by my elbow, demanding my attention. I stare at it for a moment and then slide the journal over to cover it up. Lavender craft glitter sprinkles the bed, and I groan as it’s already spackled my black leggings.
I blow the steam off my soup only to have it whip right back at me. I put it down and reach under my leg to find a wooden bead, which I chuck on the floor. Drink still in hand, I look over at the stack of unread books on the nightstand and pick up Infinite Jest, which has been sitting there for the past two years. I turn it over to see the back cover but I know it requires too much mental energy, so I put it down and pick up Great Expectations. I flip through the pages but decide it’s too long.
I take a sip of my drink and feel the incendiary coolness of the vodka sliding down my throat. I lean back against the gray tufted headboard and take a deep Ujjayi breath, audibly in through the nose, out through the nose. It’s the closest I get to yoga these days. I peer over the edge of the bed at the emerald crushed-velvet throw pillows on the floor. It would be so easy to just pick them up, but I don’t. Shifting my gaze to the men’s dresser, I make a mental note to grab the four empty water glasses on my next trip downstairs.
The smell of mildew coming from the ensuite bathroom isn’t that bad. It could probably go another week. As long as I keep the window open.
Meghan just had a baby, so I take another swig of vodka and text, “How’s your vag?”
She responds, “Broken.”
I nod in solidarity.
I can’t remember what we did on Saturdays before having kids. Exercise? Brunch? Hang out with actual friends? Our social lives have turned into “family time,” where we shuttle ourselves around the Tri-State area so that our relatives can watch us watch our children. The other option is a surface level playdate where we don’t dare dig deep.
I get up and look out the window. Our neighbor Todd is carrying his two-year-old down the street, both of them with fresh haircuts, pressed khakis, and crisp collared shirts. His wife Janet is standing outside in a flowered bohemian sundress and curled hair cradling her infant.
Screw them.
My youngest child is running around the backyard in nothing but a diaper, while my husband plays around on his phone, and the older one certainly has his shoes on the wrong feet.
Exactly twenty-three minutes into my “break,” the gate at the bottom of the stairs slams against the wall. I hear the staccato smack of tiny feet marching up the steps until my four-year-old is standing in the hallway in front of my open door. He’s soaking wet, and drops of water start to pool beside him.
“Mommy, I’m cold,” he says and proceeds to strip, leaving his clothes in a soppy mess on the hardwood.
I lean my head back and look up at the ceiling because my soup is now cold, and this will be one more meal I’ll forget to eat. I reluctantly get up though, because he’s four, and has already started the tub.
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