2

According to the fireball in the sky, the clock would read at least past noon. Five o'clock somewhere. I emptied the dregs of the Malbec Bota box last night at dinner. The liquor store was too far away to walk. I didn't think I could face the boys just to retrieve the van keys. Plus, it's always so classy to take your five kids into the liquor store around lunch on a Thursday.

The sun beat down on top of the baby's fuzzy head. Baby Brighid. The only one of them who made me feel important. And she would turn on me like the rest of them, by two or three years old after sucking me dry of any real importance. She sunggled up against my chest, her left thumb half-in, half-out of her perfect baby mouth.

I pulled my iPhone from my bra, wiped it clean of boob sweat and texted Lyd who replied the same way every time I texted "Is it 2 early?"

She faithfully answered, "Never 2 early."

"I'm out of vino. R U?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"On my way."

Through the front windows I saw nothing but the couch, the ratty old rocking chair, three cats, and a reflection of an aging girl with tired eyes and a perfect baby in a wrap. No sign of my sons, ages 11, 8, 6, and 4. How could my house so full of boy spirit appear so devoid of life? Normally the silence would scare me, but today, I couldn't muster up enough of myself to even care. Deep down I knew that somewhere not far from the windows, there was fighting, hitting, name calling, or (d) all of the above.

I turned and headed up the hill, over the speed humps. Lyd's boxy modern house sat high on the side of a ridge just  outside the neighborhood. A five minute walk at most. I sighed the sigh only mothers know and left for Lyd's.

Had I chosen to wait my frustration out in the swing, the windows eventually would have framed a giant magic makered sign that read:

WE LOVE YOU MOM

WE'RE SORRY

.  .

*



But I didn't. I walked away and missed it.

Lyd sat watching for me on her balcony. She held a glass of wine out to me when she let me inside. 

"You're so much closer than the liquor store," I told her. "And way better looking than that creepy dude behind the counter."

"That's what friends are for," she laughed and snorted. Lyd can be counted on to snort when she laughs too hard. Her husband's a snorter, too. It's almost touching when they snort in sync.

I pulled my phone back out of my bra thinking about calling the kids to tell them where I had gone. But honestly. Did I really believe they had even noticed? Noticed only if they needed something they couldn't reach or ran out of toilet paper and "forgot" there were twelve rolls just beneath the sink five inches from their legs.