Untitled.

So I just started writing, out of the blue. And I truly believe this is one of my favorite and best pieces of writing to date.

 

Metal forks clinking against my glass kitchen table startled me awake from daze of relaxing in a hammock with a Xanex martini on a beach somewhere in Cancun.

"Michael! What are you doing?" I yelled in the general direction of the kitchen.

"Nothing," he cooed. I knew he was up to no good. I walked into my kitchen to see metal forks, knives, and spoons spread arbitrarily on the table and floor. Stella was in her room next door to the kitchen, playing her musi all too loud. Michael was perched on my tabletop, fork and knife in hand, banging on the glass table as if it were a bongo drum.

"That's enough! You need to clean this up now, and after we're going outside. You can ride your bike or something; anything to keep you from destroying any more of my house! And Stella, for the sake of the Lord, turn that music down! It's entirely too loud; we have neighbors!" I couldn't believe it. 9 am and I was already on the verge of loosing my voice.

I knew he wouldn't clean everything up, so I bent over and scooped up as many pointy eatery utensils as my hands would carry, and then instructed him again to clean everything else up. I sighed and went into my bedroom to change into my outdoor clothes; My garden needed weeding and I wasn't going to play around in the dirt while wearing my favorite silk pajamas.

"Stella! Come help your brother clean up this mess, now!" I called. I heard the music shut off, and her door flew open so quickly I thought it would fly off the hinges.

"Why do I have to help? I didn't make the mess!" She whined.

"I don't care. Help him," I instructed. She sighed and rolled her eyes, but complied with my instruction to assist her brother. After she cleaned up a little under half of the silverware, she stood up and decide to go on a tantrum.

"I don't see why I constantly have to take care of my brother! He's 6 years old, he should be able to listen to you, Mom! He made this mess, he can clean it up without my help. He's a spoiled, selfish brat and I hope someday you see that!"

And with that, she stormed off to her room, making emphasis with each step she took; Slamming her door as if to add a period to her statement of agression.

Michael was innocent enough, for a six year old. He stayed out of trouble and did well in school. He was only in first grade, so it's not like his entire future depended on everything he learned, but I expected him to do well.

Stella, a fresh teenager, often had incredulous mood swings and a poor attitude emanated from every fiber of her being when she didn't get her way. I know it's just a teenage phase, and that Michael will go through it too, but sometimes it's enough to make me worry. She does good in school, struggling only in Math and Science. She's got a good social life; an average amount of friends; enough to give me some peace-of-mind about her social status among her peers.

After two hours of listening to Michael mumble to himself while he played, I had to go in and make lunch. I favored this time-around 12:30 or 1 o'clock in the afternoon- the most of my day; Stella was either with her friends (since it was summer, she thought she had to be away as much as possivle), or locked away in her room; Michael always ate lunch and went straight to bed for a nap. With both of the kids out of my hair, I could relax on my own. Catch up on a book, watch some television, or even take a much needed-and deserved- nap. Thinking of this wonderful reward, I called for Michael to come inside and dusted the dirt of off my hands and knees. After 5 minutes, Michael finally came running down to the house. I slapped some peanut butter and marshmallow fluff onto two slices of bread, threw them together, and cut it into two neat triangles. I opend a Super Stack of Pringles and put a small amount on the plate next to the sandwich, and topped it off with a cup full of milk. I sent Michael to the living room table to eat and grabbed a wrap for me, spreading mayonnaise on it and adding turkey and provolone cheese. In the other room, I could hear my cell phone ringing. From the ringtone, I knew it was Stella calling. I dropped my dirty knife in the sink, plopped the low-carb, low-fat, bland wrap on a paper plate, and dashed towards the living room. I got to my cell phone in time before it headed to voicemail, and answered breathless.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Why are you short of breath?"

"Nothing important. What do you need?"

"Well, my friends and I got dropped off at the mall by Rachel's mom, and I just saw the cutest pair of shoes..."

She kept talking; I wasn't listening. Anything that involved me spending money was out of the question.

"No, Stella." I said firmly to the receiver.

"Mom, whyyy?"

"We don't have the extra money for you to throw around on a pair of shoes. You've got shoes that are decent; wear those. I'm not giving you money. Now I have to go, your brother stuck the fluff half of his sandwich in his hair. See you when you get home; Bye." I hung up without listening to her beg and plead. I pictured her at this moment, turning, embarrassed and disgusted, to her friends; saying how much of a b***h I was for not handing her extra money at the drop of a hat. Of course, I didn't want to be portrayed as a mean mother, but I knew that's how she made it seem in the eyes of her friends.

That's how my life went, day in and day out: Putting up with selfish, ungrateful teens, and a bratty six year old who didn't listen. That's how my life went, that is, until Ethan walked into my life.

One day, while running hectic into my local Starbucks, I came across a new barista, Ethan. Instead of just saying "The usual," to the green-apron wearing cashier, I had to explain my lengthy order: A chai latte, extra chai, no water, and skim milk. Some mornings, I recquired an extra shot of espresso. I kept catching Ethan looking at me, and I thought something was up. But, since I had time, (Michael with a sitter and Stella at her friends house), I decided to pull out my laptop and take a seat in a corner with my freshly brewed latte. I began to type up my resume for the journalism job I wanted with the local newspaper. I fabricated some things; that I could work a fancy new printer; and that I had the ability to type fairly quick, (average: 60 words per minute). I figured that the second one wouldn't be a problem, because I'd learn to type faster as I went along. Sure, I had my laptop. I could practice anytime. But with my jam-packed schedule, I couldn't find time to use it anyway. It's not like I was going to want to work in sports reporting; That job recquired you to know the sports scores in time to print tomorrow's edition of the paper; posting all of the scores for people to see. That was definitely not my cup of tea. Anyway, I worked on my resume for probably a good 45 minutes, stopping every so often to glance up and see what Ethan was doing, or to see what kind of odd people shuffled in for their morning dose of caffeine.

After about an hour and a half, Ethan casually came over to my little corner and asked if he could join me. He had what appeared to be a grande mocha espresso, no whipped cream, and probably loaded with extra espresso shots to get him through the day. I questioned him to see if I was correct.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"That depends. What do you think it is?" At that point, I noticed that he had the most gorgeous blue eyes I'd ever seen. I named off what I thought it was, even adding the part about the extra shots of espresso. He laughed and said that I had it almost correct, but it wasn't 3 shots of espresso it was 4. Soon, we got to talking about everything from President Obama to the insanely crazy street vendor down the block.

As I reached for my cup, I happened to see what time it was.

"Oh my!" I said, quickly turning off my laptop (that had been idling for a good hour), and shoving papers randomly into my briefcase.

"What? Was it something I've done?" he asked.

"No! I was just.. I was supposed to pick up my son from the babysitter's house 45 minutes ago. I have to go!"

"Wait! Can.. Can I get your number? We should go out sometime, uh, properly. I mean.. I think after taking that long of a 'break' I'll be fired, so we'll have to go someplace a tad inexpensive," he said with a chuckle. I laughed and got sidetracked from hurrying out the door when I took another look at his sweet face. I took in all of his features: a strong, powerful jawline, the bluest eyes, and short, dark hair. Oh, and let's not forget the face of an angel.

"I'd love that, inexpensive or not," I glanced around for a napkin or scrap of paper to write my number down on, but came up short.

"Oh! Uh here," he said, tossing me a pen and a sticky note pad. I scribbled my number down, followed by my name. I peeled it off from the rest, kissed it and left a lipstick imprint on it, and attatched over the Starbucks logo on his green apron. I gave him very warm smile, and shuffled past him and out the door.

I could feel his gaze locked onto me as I opened the door to my champagne colored Nissan Jetta, hopped in, and drove off. Speeding down the highway towards Jess, the babysitter's house, I thought of nothing other than Ethan and what he was doing. I kept checking my cell phone, hoping to hear from him sometime that night. I felt like I needed to be near him; needed to talk to him. Although we sat in the Starbucks for almost two hours, I feel like I had been rushed; Like I couldn't cover all of the emotions I was feeling come at me like a hurricane; a whirlwind.

***

Weeks passed. I had been seeing Ethan almost weekly, heading out normally every Saturday night when Michael was with a sitter and Stella was away or at home with a friend. I felt bad for not telling them about Ethan and I yet, but I knew it had to be the right moment. I couldn't just pop it on them. One night, Michael was at an overnight birthday party, and it was just Stella and I watching an Adam Sandler movie. I reached for the remote and paused it.

"Hey! I was watching that!" Stella protested. Honestly, she acted like a 5 year old sometimes.

"I know, but I need to talk to you,"

"Oh boy. This can't be good. What did I do now?" She repositioned herself on the couch and crossed her arms across her chest, bracing herself for a lecture on bad behavior or inadequate grades.

"You didn't do anything. I have to tell you something about me," I said, feeling narsasistic. Although I had no reason; I never got to say anything about me around this house.

"Okay?" Stella sounded surprised, and I could tell she was a little more relaxed.

"I"m not really sure exactly how to go about telling you this, but.. I uhm, met someone," I uttered. She looked at me with shock aparent on her face.

"I know it doesn't seem normal for me to be back with someone, in a relationship, since your father died, but this guy is really nice and I believe you'll like him when you do meet him, and that time will come soon. Right now, I just wanted to let you know," I took a breath and paused, waiting for a reaction. She could be either totally fine with it, or super mad about it.

"I thought you loved Daddy," she said. I knew this was going to happen.

"I did, and still do love your Dad. But he's gone now, has been for 3 years, and I'm beginning to miss having someone in my life. I need companionship, just like you do. You have friends, and I have nobody," I explained.

"You have Michael! And if that isn't enough for 'companionship,' we'll buy a dog!" She exclaimed, and then once again stormed off to her room.

Sometimes it seemed as if there was no pleasing her. I know she wanted me to be happy, deep down, but it was just going to take some getting used to for her to have another father figure in her life.

Stella and Michael's dad, George, died three years ago in a car accident. The driver of the car that collided into him was drunk, and his passenger was also under the influence; Neither of them should've been driving, obviously, but there wasn't even an alert person in the vehicle. George was pronounced dead at the scene; the impact nearly decapitated him. I couldn't bear to see him all decrepit and battered in a casket, so I decided on cremation. I didn't want to traumatize the kids or something by leaving the urn in public display, so I kept in my room; hanging on a shelf above the photos of George and I together at our honeymoon in Italy.

After I heard Stella's door slam, confirmation for me to not disturb, I sat on the couch and sobbed; Adam Sandler's face plastered on my television screen. I knew telling Stella was going to upset her, but there was no way around it. Would she rather me date and not tell her of it? I don't know if I'd be able to date someone knowing my children couldn't stand the person. It would all depend on how in love with them I was. I didn't know when I would tell Michael. Maybe I'd take him to Perkins, his favorite place, and talk to him it over smiley face pancakes coated in thick, sugary syrup. Before telling him, I'd have to deal with Stella's problem with it.

I walked to Stella's room, and before rapping on the door, saw a big pink sign with black lettering telling me to "Stay Out!" I hesitated knocking, but then decided 'I'm her mother, and I don't care if she wants me to stay out or not.' I lifted my hand to knock, when I heard Stella's voice. She was on the phone. I couldn't fully understand what she mumbled into the phone, but I got bits and pieces:

"..... She thinks she is young enough to date again..."

"She's got kids; no one is going to want her..."

I sighed and stepped away from the door. I went to the bathroom, rinsed my face with cool water, and made a feeble attempt to fix my hair into a loose ponytail. I tried to waste time in the bathroom; give Stella enough time to get off the phone before I knocked. After a few more minutes, I slowly walked toward her door, and grew enough courage to knock on her door.

"Stella, open the door. Please. We need to talk about this," I tried sounding as sweet and sincere as possible; coax her to open the door.

"Go away!" She shouted. I tried the doorknob, and surprisingly, it was unlocked. I went inside and sat down next to her on the bed.

"Stella, hear me out. This isn't going to get easier if we procrastinate talking about it. I'm definitely not trying to replace your father; he was a wonderful man and no one will ever fill the empty place in my heart that is present because of him being gone. Ethan, the man I've been seeing, is a truly wonderful man that works well with kids; he has a side job at a daycare center. You two will get along great, I know it; You have to give him a chance to prove himself, though. Michael is a little bit too young to fully understand death and why your dad is gone, but I know he'll get used to having Ethan around, as will you. And please, Stella, don't think for a moment you ever have to call Ethan dad, or think of him as a father; he's not your dad and I don't expect you to think that way. Just please, Stella, consider meeting Ethan before you judge him the way you did earlier. Do we have a deal?"

"I guess, Mom. I'm sorry I snapped, it's just I don't see why it can't just stay the three of us. It's cozy," she said.

"I know we're all used to it this way, but if Ethan and I get closer and things develop into more serious things, we move in together, we'll consider Ethan part of our family. Until then he's just.. a friend," I said, exhaling.

"Now what do you say we swing by the mall? Those shoes could still be there, but only if you promise to give Ethan a chance. Deal?"

"Deal," Stella said, grinning.

***

 

 

Author's Note

Please be aware of typos. There could be some I missed (I proofread by myself, not with spell checker).