Excuse Me Ma'am, There's Something Stuck To Your Breast

by
Peggy Roth

     I have a cold today. A nasty cold. Torrents of mucous have pitched a river into my heavy lungs; my face is hot, my throat on fire, my chest sore from the endless, viscose coughing.
     I remember what I used to do when this happened. I used to call in sick to work. I used to take the phone off the hook. I used to fill the tub with hot water and sink in for a thirty-minute steamy soak. I used to get out of the tub, shuffle to bed, and collapse for a nap that ended when my body was done resting. I used to take the medications of my pleasure.
     This time, I am at home with my three-year-old son and my ten-week-old daughter. There is no one to call in sick to. Gone are the days when recovering from a cold involved the luxury of surrender. Now, recovery is like trying to catch your breath in the middle of a marathon without breaking your stride.
     My son has an insatiable need for elaborate, imaginative play in which I am required to use all six of my arms to animate the toys in accordance with his scenarios. And do it enthusiastically. The production also requires me to provide flawlessly distinct voices for each character. And provide them enthusiastically. If I waver in my talents, he reaches into my chest, clenches my heart in his chubby fist and pouts, "Mommmm, you're not playing right!" Each time it happens today, I apologize, blow my furiously running nose, clear my crackling throat, and start again.
     All the while, my daughter asserts her insatiable need to nurse. Her breakfast consists of three feedings between waking and lunch. Her lunch consists of three feedings between noon and 3pm. Her tea is served in the late afternoon just before happy hour, which is followed by dinner and a nightcap. If I stand up while nursing and hold my thirsty daughter in place, she goes on suckling no matter what other business I must attend to: laundry, cooking, a trip to the post office. I'm waiting for someone behind me on line to tap my shoulder and kindly say, "Excuse me Ma'am, there's something stuck to your breast," confusing me for a woman who has lost all touch with reality.
     Right now, with daughter firmly affixed, fever leveling out, head throbbing lightly, I am using my feet to propel a Matchbox car into the table leg, and my hoarse voice to croak, "Oh no! CRASH!" so my morbid little son can laugh furiously at the sight of an accident. It's clear that I'm not going to take a steamy soak today because my daughter would surely drown while refusing to give up her snack and my curious son would find something sticky, sharp, toxic, or electrical to fill the intermission. I'm also not going to collapse into bed for that nap because my daughter's determined grip would prevent me from lying on my back or my stomach, or from pulling the blankets to my chin, and while I slept, my son would find something sticky, sharp, toxic, or electrical. I'm also not going to take the medications of my choice, because now I have an appendage that drinks what I drink, eats what I eat, et cetera.
     Instead, I'm going to sit on the floor without a bath, a nap, or good drugs and weakly push this Matchbox car around, apologizing to my son for my obvious lack of gusto while helping my daughter latch on every time a coughing fit disconnects us. While sitting, I'll consider the gentlest way to ask my haggard spouse for help with the eighteen things I didn't do today when he comes in the door from a long day's work. Should I start with requests about dinner or laundry? Diapers or wastebaskets? Feeding the cats or writing checks? I resolve not to get snippy if he plays the bathroom card and spends more than five minutes in there. I resolve not to complain about our demanding children, who only want what they're entitled to: their mother.
     The woman who taught our childbirth class once told us it was unlikely we'd be able to sleep during labor, so we would have to "pretend" to sleep in order to get any rest at all. This was done, she said, by tuning out, taking a deep breath and imagining we were sleeping in those tiny moments that come between the distractions and demands of labor. It's kind of like that now. Between the burping and the Matchbox accidents, I'm pretending to sleep.

Peggy Roth is a writer from Sebastopol, CA who is growing a magazine as well as a young family. She is the editor of Dark Hollow, an autumn literary journal, and writes short fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared most recently in The Dickens and WestWord.