After the day’s bombardment of demands, I wander through the house.  One distraction after another keeps me from any meaningful activity.  I warm a half-cup of brown rice.  I spoon the last few pickled beets into the shallow metal bowl that I’ve used since I can’t say when; my mother gave it to me, claiming that it had been my great aunt Bib’s favorite dish.  The splash of color against its white enamel finish soothes me somehow.

Noises from the television fall around me.  I don’t hear the phone ring and by the time I call my son back, he’s not able to talk.  I put the phone down with some degree of chagrin.  I’ve been watching a show about children cooking with their mothers.  I think, Am I letting him down by selling the house?  Aren’t I suppose to always be here for him?  Wouldn’t he be better off with a normal family?

My son got stung by a bee when he was about five.  He squatted on top of the climber in the back yard studying his foot as it swelled.  I called to him from the porch, Are you hurt?  What do you need?  His voice remained steady when he answered me.  I need a real Mother, he replied.  Call Beth.  

Beth and Randy Calstrom lived down the street.  She worked part-time at their church and made supper every evening.  She never drove their children through McDonald’s at seven in the evening or forgot to do laundry.  She didn’t wrap their eggs in a tortilla and make a mad dash out the door with her skirt half zipped and her shoes unbuckled.

I called her, of course.  She came running, the perfect remedy clutched in her hand.  I haven’t a clue what it was.

I stand on the porch and listen to the birds calling from their nests in my gutters.  I tell myself, You’ve got to get somebody over to clean those damn things.  Right after the baby birds make their first flight, I suppose.  The sun sinks behind the houses on the west side of the block, sending a spray of shadows across their manicured lawns.  Overhead, stars begin to twinkle.

I choke on the lump in my throat.  Silence overwhelms me.  I realize that I’ve been awake since two in the morning and I’m probably just tired.  I remind myself that my son has a Bachelor’s degree from DePauw University and an MFA from Northwestern.  He lives in a comfortable apartment and has a sweet, talented girlfriend.  He knows what he wants out of life.

I can barely stand myself some times.  This night, this fragile spring night on my beloved porch in Brookside, surrounded by blooming flowers in their terra cota pots, is one of those times.

I know my strengths.  I know my weaknesses.  I understand my failures.  I’ve never been one of those people, never had it all together or stopped on a dime.  But I gave my son all that I could.  It has to have been enough.

Day’s End, the second day of the forty-first month as My Year Without Complaining turns another click towards eternity.  Life continues.