mother of exiles

I miss my babies. We barely slept for four years, but I knew what to do, mostly. Always cuddle, always nurse. Their desires were basic and I their whole, happy world.

Pre-schoolers are harder.

We are at Aldi getting pecans for pie. We haven't even made it as far as the cheese. James doesn't want to be in the cart, and he begins to lose his mind at top volume. People look on, horrified, or pretend they cannot hear our terrible circus. I am your nightmare. I am invisible.

He is not a baby. He is old enough to know better, and so am I, but still I snap sharply and swear when I see the check-out lines wrapped well into frozen foods, those huddle masses, tired and poor, and I yearning to breathe free.

Tempest-tost, I turn the cart, shoving cream back into coolers and pretzels on shelves, abandoning the cart and my dignity by the sliding doors.

Mother of Exiles, I want to go home. But I still need those freaking pecans.

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