Quit

by Robin Prince Monroe

The cry began as a request, not a demand. It was no nonsense, but not urgent. Someplace in my mom heart I knew I needed to respond, but there was the heavy weight of exhaustion sitting square on my chest. I couldn’t move, not yet.

The cry grew louder, more demanding. In my mind the words came, Please, baby, quit crying.” More crying, urgent now. My mommalove gave me the strength to push the weight off. I opened my eyes. As I became more aware, the smell of breast milk and sweat reminded me where I was. More crying, now frantic.

“I’m coming, baby.” I picked her up and held her on my shoulder. She calmed, taking those little staccato breaths that meant the crying was over. I took her back to bed, laid her in the crook of my arm and let her nurse. I breathed in her new baby smell, and stroked her downy head.

And my heart was full.

My house was wrecked. Giant Lego blocks were strewn across the floor. Anxious stuffed animals peeked from under the couch. Cracker crumbs, Cheerios, and an M&M were crushed into the carpet. A tired sippy cup had laid over to rest, and was drooling onto my favorite throw pillow, the one that made me feel like a decorator.

It was naptime. What should I do with this one quiet hour? I felt like a desperately starving woman holding one small crust of bread. My mind raced. I needed to clean. I needed to start supper. I needed to fold laundry, read about potty training and I needed to rest!

“Mommy!”

“It’s okay, baby, please quit crying.”

“Mommy!!” She screamed.

I ran to her room. “What’s wrong, baby?”

She gulped the next scream. It caught in her throat with soppy breaths. I picked her up and carried her to the living room. We sat in the padded rocking chair, the one that we had rocked miles in when she was teething. She pointed to the pile of picture books on the small, wood table next to us.

I picked up her favorite and opened it. She quieted, and so did I.

And my heart was full.

The table was pushed against the wall of our small kitchen. I sat there with my planning book, and thick know-it-all teacher texts, working on the lessons for next week.

On the pantry door a brightly colored task chart taunted me with empty grid boxes and a few scattered stickers of hope. She was in her room now. Probably playing with her Barbies, having them act out the next friend crisis. Or maybe, she was reading her comic books, finding relief in an invented world. I wanted to let her stay there, playing and reading, remaining ten forever.

“Mom!” she shouted. “Mom!” Her persistence reminded me of a cawing crow.

I knew if I didn’t go, she would peck at me until I did.

I found her in her bedroom, standing in front of her dresser staring in the mirror. Tears were running down her sweet face collecting flecks of black mascara like a river collects sand.

“What is it, baby? What’s wrong?”

“Look at me! I look horrible! No wonder no one likes me.”

“Quit talking like that, baby. I am looking and here’s what I see. I see Aunt Erin’s golden eyes, Uncle Caleb’s curly, brown hair, Grammie’s turned up nose, and Daddy’s big smile. You are beautiful, Sweetheart. Beautiful.” She sat on her bed. I pulled up a chair.

I wiped her tear-stained cheeks, then helped her with a little make-up.

“Just for at home.” I said. She reached over to hug me. And my heart was full.

We laughed. I kissed her cheek, then went to my designated seat in the almost front pew. The pink and yellow flowers strategically placed around us smelled green, not sweet.

I tucked an errant curl back under her veil, then touched up her lips with rosy gloss.

“Quit fussing over me, Mom. You know you can’t fix my crazy hair.”

Pastel dresses, blazers and ties, filled the rows, waiting with expectant eyes and whispers.

Then the trill of Pachelbel’s Cannon tinkled through the air. She floated on her Daddy’s arm, all satin, fluff, and joy. She smiled and promised. He smiled and promised. They kissed.

An end, and a beginning. The organ sang again. She stopped to give me a hug.

And my heart was full.

Robin Prince Monroe lives in the beautiful Low country of South Carolina. She is an author, artist, and beach crazy, child at heart. She delights in writing for children.

To find out more visit www.RobinPrinceMonroe.com