Drudgery

She stands at the kitchen sink, steadily washing dishes. Behind her, the baby whines, discontent with the lack of attention. She moves  faster in the hot water and hurriedly finishes the last few items, before wiping her hands and scooping the baby up into her arms. She snuggles his neck and he giggles, content now that attention is being paid.

The baby on her hip, she slowly makes her way through the house, straightening books and picking up laundry. He twirls his fingers in her hair and she shakes her head away, not enjoying the pulling.

She finishes up and surveys the house, looking for things she may have missed.

This is not what I was meant to be doing with my life she thinks, as bending, she places the baby in the high chair and moves to the kitchen to make lunch for him. Looking at the clock she is struck by how slowly time is moving.

She is methodical as she peels potatoes and carrots for lunch. She boils the water and plays peek-a-boo while the vegetables cook and the baby gets steadily grumpier. It’s almost naptime and she is looking forward to the silence it will bring.

It’s like this every day. The eternal drudgery. The washing of dishes and clothes and mucky handprints on the walls. The cooking of food that is never eaten and the picking up of toys unplayed with.

He starts to cry in earnest and she looks at him and talks cheerfully, almost cooing the words.

‘What a great big boy you’re going to be. Mummy is just going to mash these vegetables and then you’re going to eat them and stop crying aren’t you. You’re going to nap and leave Mummy alone for a bit, yes, yes you are.’

He looks at her as she mashes his vegetables and blows on them to cool them.

She walks towards him and sitting on the floor in front of him, she starts the song and dance to get him to eat.

He smiles at her and the first 3 mouthfuls are easy, before the lure of playing in the food is too great and he starts spitting to examine it. Resigned to the mess, she lets him examine some as she puts as much food in his mouth as she can before he grows bored of her.

The bowl empties slowly and she stands to find a clean wash cloth. By the time she emerges from the bathroom, he has crawled away, leaving smeared food across the floor; tiny handprints marking his disappearance. She chases him down and he giggles as he is caught and then cries as he is cleaned.

They make their way through the naptime routine until he is safely ensconced in his cot and sleeping.

She boils the kettle and makes a cup of tea, moving without thinking now.

I used to be a person she thinks. I wonder what happened to me?

She moves through the kitchen, holding her cup of tea until she is sitting outside, in the first rays of Spring sunshine.

The cat twines underfoot and she closes her eyes and lifts her face to the sun, reminding herself to just keep breathing.

The cat jumps on her lap and startled, she drops the cup, spilling hot tea on herself and shattering the mug. She swears, loudly, before breathing deeply and moving to pick up the shards of porcelain.

As careful as she is, she cuts herself and sits back on her haunches, watching her finger drip blood. Her skin, bright red where the tea hit it, stings in the cool air.

Her fingertip glistens red and the sun shines through the blood like red diamonds.

It reminds her that no matter what, she is still alive.