Page 9 of Fresh Canvas
Did it make me a bad mom if I ordered pizza for the second time this week? I was willing to risk it. Come to think of it, I was sure there was a package of frozen broccoli stuffed somewhere in the back of the freezer. That would balance things out nicely.
I gathered the few scattered tissues beside my pillow and blew my nose with a fresh one. Dropping the tear-stained evidence into a garbage can, I strode out of my bedroom.
I slowed past the living room, where Mom was hanging tinsel on our recently purchased Christmas tree. She had sold my childhood home to move in with Anthony and me a few months after Dad’s funeral last year.
Dad’s memorial was exactly what he would have wanted. Mom served his favorite homemade mint lemonade, and a Minnesota Vikings flag was draped over his casket. The memory of it all caught in my throat.
I had never known the hollow misery of death. It was a surreal understanding that I could never understand. The surgeon had told us if Dad had come into the hospital even an hour earlier, they might have been able to do more.
So why couldn’t the clocks go back an hour? A daylight savings time to save my father?
Grief settled inside my home like an insidious roommate refusing to leave. However, the simple sounds of Mom’s clanging pans and shuffling footsteps lifted my spirits a little. Before she moved in with us, the house had felt too quiet with just me and Anthony. And when he stayed with Ryan every other weekend, the silence suffocated me. I couldn’t imagine surviving this dark season of loneliness without her.
The upcoming holiday season was an agonizing game of charades, where we acted as though everything was normal. Joyful, even. But deep inside, I was sure that at any moment, Dad would open the door. We would hear his deep, rumbling voice again as he stomped his snow-covered boots.
Mom’s blue eyes caught my reddened ones on the other side of the glowing Christmas tree, and her mouth pulled into a sad smile. We didn’t need words to know how the other was feeling, so I returned a small, watery smile of my own and tipped a shoulder. I heaved a sigh and continued to head for the freezer-burnt broccoli.
From above my dining room table, a glimpse of a cerulean hummingbird’s wing made me pause. A peaceful breath filled my lungs. Familiar comfort radiated from my favorite hummingbird’s portrait. The memento of my younger, passionate self made me smile.
Maybe Linda is on to something after all.
An orange football suddenly whizzed by, ruffling my sloppy ponytail. Trepidation hit, rivaling the force with which the prohibited football hit the painting. My lungs froze, only daring to exhale once the wobbling masterpiece slowed to a stop. Footsteps dashed back down the hallway before my son’s bedroom door closed with a thud.
Not today.
I squatted by the dining room table, grunting as I retrieved the football. An escaped wavy lock of hair fell into my eyes, and I blew it away in frustration. Hadn’t I told Anthony a milliontimes that footballs weren’t allowed in the house? I wrestled some semblance of calm into my voice.
“Anthony, will you please come here?”
Moments later, he shuffled into the dining room with small steps and tentative eyes. His stubborn cowlick stuck up in the back like Dad’s, threatening to prick my tear ducts.
“It was an accident.” Anthony swallowed, balancing while scratching the back of his ankle with his shoe.
Regardless of my crumbling life, Anthony didn’t deserve to be unloaded on. He had suffered over this last year, too. So I screwed my eyes shut, trying to remember whatever the first pages ofGentle Parenting for Beginnershad advised.
“Sweetie, footballs are limited to outside play only. If you continue to ignore that rule, any ball thrown will be confiscated. That is my…” I hesitated, recalling page four. “Boundary.”
Anthony’s freckled face pinched tight. “Boundary? What does that mean?”
I paused, not quite knowing the answer myself. “Umm... It means you need to respect the rules in this house or there’ll be consequences.”
“Well that’s stupid. Dad lets me do whatever I want at his house!” Anthony folded his pale, lanky arms over his Green Bay Packers t-shirt that Ryan bought. Ryan must have gotten a kick out of sending Anthony back home to me with it.
My nostrils flared. “Yeah, well your father never cared about consequences,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
Stay calm.
I’d have to get better at biting my tongue. The last thing Anthony needed was to get caught in the crosshairs of our nasty divorce. I took another deep breath and said, “Your father can make the rules at his house, but you already know the rules in mine.”
“Yeah, well your rules suck,” Anthony muttered and stalked away. All I could register was the slam of his door and the “Gaming In Progress” sign settling against it with a knock.
Gentle parent, gentle parent… Aw, screw it.
“Anthony you get your sorry butt back here and apologize!”
No response.
I swung an exasperated look over my shoulder at Mom, whose lips seemed to twitch in amusement. She gave an encouraging nod before turning back to the Christmas tree. I could have sworn I heard a mumble that sounded a lot like “Deja vu”.
