Motherhood and Garlic
At four o’clock, I place the top block on the tower that my two-year-old and I have been building, and I start defrosting tonight’s chicken in a bowl of running water. The block tower falls and two-year-old cries, which triggers the three-month-old to start screaming in demand of my breasts’ milk. I encourage the two-year-old to rebuild while I nurse the baby, who guzzles for about fifteen minutes. My stomach rumbles.
The blocks fall, again, and the two-year-old cries. Again. He doesn’t stop until the baby finishes eating and I sit down to help rebuild the tower. We play until it is time to start cooking. He agrees to move the blocks to the kitchen while I relocate the baby’s bouncer there as well.
Diaper check before I fire up the stove: two-year-old is fine, baby peed. I change him and settle him in his bouncer. His eyes close, and I quickly help the two-year-old build his tower until the blocks reach his chest. He stands back, looks at the tower, and smiles.
I start chopping the garlic. My husband calls. He will be late; we should eat without him. Again. I shake my head and move onto quartering and seasoning the red potatoes.
They go into the oven without interruption, and I start marinating the chicken. I’m in the groove now and it’s time to sauté the garlic. It crackles when it hits the hot olive oil in the pan.
The blocks crash. Two-year-old screams. Baby opens his eyes. Screams.
A pacifier momentarily calms the baby, but the two-year-old continues to wail until I sit on the floor, hold him in my arms, and hum “Ode to Joy.” As for the garlic, all I can do is watch smoke curl upward from the pan.
Once the two-year-old stops crying, I shove the charred garlic pan to the side of the stove in disgust. There’s no time to make another batch and the baby’s fussing. As I toss the chicken in with the potatoes, the two-year-old decides to wrap himself around my legs.
“Please get back so I can get these into the burning oven, honey. Get back. Please. GET. BACK.”
He starts crying but finally lets go. Baby spits out his pacifier and cries. I slam the oven door shut. Dinner will be bland, but at least they have food to eat. Back on the kitchen floor, I sit with the crying baby in one arm and the crying two-year-old in the other. There’s no chance to steam vegetables.
Eventually, the baby falls back asleep and the two-year-old runs off to play with some cars. I snatch the spinach I wanted to use for tomorrow’s dinner, quickly cut some cucumbers, and grate carrots for an impromptu salad. Chicken and potatoes come out of the oven. I make two plates and put the smaller one in the freezer for a minute, so the food won’t burn two-year-old’s tongue.
“Dinner!”
No answer.
“DINNER.”
A giggle drifts from a room. I tilt my head back to keep the tears from falling and begin searching the bedrooms. When I find two-year-old, he laughs and runs away from me. After a couple laps around the house, I finally manage to scoop him up and shove him in his chair at the table. He eyes the plate in front of him, picks up a single piece of potato, and licks it.
“Blegh.”
He shoves his plate away. Headache building, I take one bite of chicken. He grabs my salad bowl and dumps it over the table. It takes multiple deep breaths to stop myself from screaming.
“All right. Bedtime.”
Diaper check: both have peed and pooed. I start the bath running and change baby’s diaper before getting the two-year-old ready for the warm, sudsy bath. The baby starts crying, again, and I spend bath time cuddling and tickling the baby while two-year-old splashes around. I ignore my screaming stomach.
Bath time finishes, and baby fusses when I set him in his bouncer so I can dry off two-year-old and dress him in pajamas. For storytime, I choose a book about trucks, but the baby’s fussing escalates into crying. I pause to find the baby’s pacifier.
The two-year-old protests this interruption by screaming and flailing with his arms and legs. The tantrum does not stop, even after I continue reading the story. Baby starts crying again. I do not join the crying party and instead scoop the two-year-old up and put him in his bed with his blankie. I close the door to his room.
He screams.
Baby nurses, cries, spits up, cries. Eventually sleep silences the two-year-old. Diaper check: baby peed. I change him and then it’s back to crying, nursing, spitting up, crying, nursing, and then, blessedly, he sleeps.
At nine o’clock, I sit down at the table. Food’s cold. I attack the potatoes and chicken anyway. The front door opens. My husband walks in.
“I told you not to wait for me.”
“I didn’t.”
He goes to the stove to fix himself a plate and frowns at the blackened pan. “What is this?”
“Burnt garlic. Both of them were crying and I haven’t had a chance to clean up yet.”
He comes over and kisses my forehead before taking care of his plate. He pushes the chicken and potatoes to one side of his plate and fills the other side with yogurt. Then, he scrapes every bit of the burnt garlic from the pan onto his plate and mixes it with the yogurt.
“I’m sorry I was late,” he says, and joins me at the table. When he starts to eat the burned garlic, I take his hand in mine, smile, and let the tears flow onto my plate.
About the Author
Crystal Ramos lives in Georgia with her husband and two children. She is an award-winning author with an MA in Professional Writing. Some of her shorter works have appeared in Rescued Hearts: A Hidden Acres Anthology, Black Hare Press: Year Four, and Stygian Lepus: Issue Five.
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