Tenure
“Do you work?” the man prompts as he pushes his little girl in the swing adjacent to my son, completely oblivious to my visceral reaction.
The swing set yells my fury while I think of a response. Squeal, squeal! My sleep-deprived brain is now fully awake.
My brow, once unlined, now has indents from worry and sweat from my tenure. Do I explain my typical day to him to justify my worth? Tell him that I am usually up most of the night with my sweet baby who screams when he’s not constantly nursing or when I have to relieve myself? Or that when he does finally fall asleep, will only sleep on my chest, making breathing a chore?
Do I detail my days filled with overflowing diapers, potty training, cleaning, playing trains, errands, silly faces, laundry, tantrums, storytelling, puppets, messy buns, picky eaters, and reading until I fall asleep mid-sentence?
It is worth mentioning my morning walks I take with a double stroller, flanked by a pink scooter, to make myself look halfway decent again? Or my hernia after birthing several children and how my body–despite my workouts that I endure with the dregs of energy I have remaining–will never look the same? Would it be too much to explain that my abs that have literally been ripped apart and, as a result, cause ribs to pop out of place every week?
How about the identity that has slowly blurred with that of my kids? The struggle I’m having with trying to find my purpose; the one I hope to find before they no longer need me?
Maybe I should try a different approach. Should I joke that I don’t get sick days or weekends? That my little bosses are on my mind, in my dreams, until I die? Or that home engineer one I heard from the gentleman with pity-filled eyes might do the trick.
Would he laugh if I told him that I woke up with a burp cloth on my shoulder and only noticed it after seeing the dark circles staring back at me? I’ll leave out that the tears part, obviously. Or perhaps I should point out the stains on my shirt from the hands always gripping me and hugging me, full of love and food that aren’t worth replacing?
My son’s giggle halts my spiraling thoughts. His chubby legs kick at the air as I fly him to the moon. My hands move automatically and I watch them, their power, causing this joy. I look down at my body, hidden with sweatpants and a baggy shirt, a stark contrast to his fitted business attire. It’s the very same vessel responsible for these lives, their well-being. He takes a phone call, a work call by the sounds of it, and I can’t help but think of the path I’ve chosen. The field I gave up to be here, now. With them.
Baby’s brother and sister wave from the playground. “Mom, watch me!” the older one squeals. I smile and watch, because that’s my career now. The businessman hangs up, still awaiting my response.
“I do. I work really hard. Full time. Best job I’ve ever had,” I say with certainty.
-Natalie Nee
Natalie Nee is a bibliophile, graduate of Colorado State University, former ghostwriter, and latte enthusiast. Her debut novel, a domestic thriller, is currently out on submission. Natalie's short story, “Saudade”, was published by the webzine, Across the Margin. Her other poems have been published by Roi Fainéant Press, Half and One, and other literary magazines. She's cooler on Twitter (@WriterNatalieN).