Stories enema

Added: Osama Charron - Date: 03.12.2021 09:16 - Views: 17827 - Clicks: 5945

I was constipated. Utterly, miserably constipated, and pregnant. I stood across the bed from my husband Jason as he dressed for work and begged him to stay home. The clock read 7 a. Two exuberant beings waited just outside the door, needing exactly all the things that little creatures need from their mother.

Stories enema

I usually prided myself on staring down those hours, the ones that yawned wide and deep, trapped in a small Hoboken apartment with little children on a cold day. But not today. The absurd pain in my belly announced itself with every step, taking me out before I even got going. I knew he loved delivering that line. To Jason, my predicament fell solidly in Mom Territory, a land I slogged through alone. Defeated, I trailed Jason through the apartment like a puppy, hoping he would look back and see me clamoring at his heels, that some well of last-minute empathy might bubble forth.

I hated my husband then. How many moments of visceral loathing, if fleeting, is one allowed for a spouse before it grows into something more sinister? He and my mother divorced when I was nine and I spend more time than I should comparing my so-far intact marriage to their failed stories enema. If I can simply pinpoint the thing that wrecked them, I think, then perhaps I can avoid it myself. The year leading up to their split is a generalized scene.

I remember pool balls flying stories enema the air once and I remember hiding with my sister under her bed. There is only one argument I vividly recall. We were off to the circus. I was seven or eight years old and buckled in next to my sister in the back of our Pontiac Parisienne station wagon. They hurled hatred at each other in slow motion, mouths opening like gasping fish, teeth bared, eyes ablaze.

Mom screamed with such fury that her nose began to bleed. Then Dad pulled over and got out, throwing the door closed. He charged away in huge, galloping strides that shot up gravel in streaks. The children ran the apartment that morning as I sat on the toilet, alternately praying to whatever gods ruled over evacuation and then cursing them. When I noticed blood in the bowl, I called my doctor.

Stories enema

Horrified, I dialed Jason at work. Unintended words. My marriage suddenly felt like a nest perched neatly on a ledge with a windstorm wailing about. Six words, the kids and I are leavinghad ushered in something that felt tenuous and dark.

Is it really so easy to turn a marital trajectory? Is that how it began with my parents? Maybe couples look back on a failed marriage and recognize the series of steps that took them there. You can no longer stomach the thought. What do you need? My father did return to the car that day.

Stories enema

I remember watching his shape recede into the distance and then reappear, his form crisping up again, detail by detail. I remember my anger at the other motorists who zipped by rubber-necked to glimpse our drama on the side of the road. I felt ashamed of whatever stories they were concocting about my family in their minds.

Stories enema

My mother must have tidied her face. I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment in their marriage when my father stopped trying and started biding his time. I wonder when my mother stopped caring about the quality of words that left her mouth in her escalating attempts to provoke any serious reaction from my father. For roughly a year, anger and resentment ran like an undercurrent beneath our home, always humming, every argument between my parents feeding the next. Then one day, my father stood in our family room between two suitcases and said goodbye.

She would return from divorce court trumpeting that we had won big and my father had lost. But I knew the truth. My family, the people I needed to have under one roof, had been sacrificed. We were all losers. Jason walked through the door an hour later, shaking a plastic bag, all business.

Get down on all-fours. Misery outplayed it all, I just wanted to feel better. I crouched down in the bathroom, a space hardly big enough for one, let alone two with the pregnant one on her knees. I studied the image of the plastic applicator on the box and fretted over fitting another thing into my body. I clamped my eyes shut as Jason moved behind me. Then I heard amusement in his words. I felt pressure and then nothing, maybe an imagined sensation of cool. Jason left and I turned the lock, feeling vulnerable and weird about our newest plane of intimacy.

I had a sudden gripping fear that something integral had shifted between us. A worry that Jason might look at me differently quivered in my gut alongside the baby and everything else. Then came pounding on the door. I used to peek at my parents in their bathroom, three decades ago, in the blue house where I grew up.

The light in the tiny space reflected off the gold wallpaper and gave my parents an aura. They were completely at ease together, giggling. My mother looked silly in her cap, ice cubes tinkling in her glass of rum and Coke, and my father played hairdresser between swigs of Miller Lite. The child in me wants the proof of love. In the Hoboken bathroom, time passed and with it, mercifully, everything else. I opened the door to find the same blue eyes staring at me from three faces. I nodded, smiling too, stories enema struck by the realization that this argument and inconvenient rescue would not chase us into tomorrow.

We were both wronged and wrong, but we could leave it alongside the wrinkled remains of an enema bag. It turned out he bought a four-pack of enemas at the store that day, and that box followed us for four years and through two stories enema, always claiming a place under the bathroom cabinet. I considered the remaining enemas saline dreamcatchers, meant to ward off any evil things that might be coming for my marriage. Stories enema gave me comfort. One day, a pregnant neighbor who knew the story and found herself in a similar predicament phoned to ask a favor.

The child in me whose parents fell apart is ever watchful. I know that if I asked, Jason would still drop everything and bound through the door, wielding enema as shining sword, just like he did years ago. But for now, it gives me courage, one daring to whisper that we might be alright, that time is simply a beast clutching my unknowable answer in its mitt.

Stories enema

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