A Blast
a contemporary micro-fiction on motherhood
It starts innocent enough.
“How old’s your kid?” I ask.
“Eighteen months,” she replies. “Yours?”
“Almost two.”
The boys don’t interact with each other, too young.
“They call it parallel play,” she says.
We talk about child development.
“Is he your only?”
“Yes. You?”
Turns out we are both stay-at-home moms.
“They don’t tell you what it’s really like. Do they?” I keep the question vague, but I’m holding my breath, hoping she understands.
“No, they don’t.” She looks at her kid. Love, exhaustion, and maybe resignation. “I knew kids are a lot of work, but I didn’t expect such a profound demand.”
Our connection feels cosmic; vulnerability brought on by lack of time.
“Yes,” I exclaim. “It makes you transparent, tissue-paper thin. Everything inside you is replaced by the child’s needs. And it never stops.” I’m embarrassed as soon as the words leave my mouth. This woman is a stranger, not a therapist.
“Do you wish you had known before you had him?” She asks.
“Yes.”
We continue talking, never to see each other again.
***
Seven years later, I get a job. My first since I’ve had my son. Retail. He’s nine, in school, and so much more independent than I could have imagined during those early years.
My trainer is nineteen. A few weeks into my new job, she glances at her stomach and says, “Guess what?”
“What?” Guessing correctly seems like an HR violation.
“I’m pregnant.” She’s smiling, running a hand over her non-existent bump.
For a moment, I consider telling her the profound ways her life is about to change.
Then, I don’t. What’s the point of scaring her when the new life is already in motion?
“Congratulations. It’s going to be a blast.”
Some of my other stories:
Love this. The ending is perfect!