It’s Sunday morning. Father’s Day. My oldest has a dance recital at 3pm and I have the day planned out. She has to arrive at noon, with makeup and hair complete. At 9:30am, my Mom (who’s visiting from Georgia), my daughter, and I head to the local bookstore to grab a gift for her dance teachers. I know what I want, I just haven’t had time to shop this last week. I made homemade loose leaf tea, with dried strawberry tops, rose petals, tulsi basil, and mint and I want to include a tea strainer, a candle and a small bar of chocolate. After their busy year of teaching, the gift I most want to give is that of relaxation.
When I arrive home at 10:00, I find my youngest lying on the couch in front of the TV. Daniel Tiger is meeting Baby Margaret for the very first time. At almost eight-years-old, she only watches Daniel Tiger when she doesn’t feel well, so I know something’s up. “Are you okay?” I walk into the sunroom and feel her forehead. She doesn’t have a temperature, but I can tell from her eyes something is wrong.
“My ear hurts. Really bad,” she says, pushing tears away with her tiny fingers.
“On a scale of 1-10, how bad?” I ask. She raises her two hands and shows me eight fingers. This is my kid with high pain tolerance, so if she’s saying eight I know it must be bad. “I’ll call the doctor,” I say, grateful that our pediatrician has weekend hours. “Maybe they can see you before they close at noon.”
The nurse tells me they have an opening at 11:00. I glance at the clock. It’s 10:20 now. One hour to get her sister ready and feed her lunch before we leave to get to the theater on time. “Can Daddy take you to the doctor?” She shakes her head no. Sobs start heaving from her chest. “Okay,” I say gently, before calling to her sister in the other room. “Let’s do your hair and makeup real fast; I need to take your sister to the doctor.”
I race up the stairs with her trailing close behind. She wets her hair in the shower. I hastily grab her hair and makeup supplies. When I start brushing her hair, she says, “Don’t rush, Mama!” reminding me that trying to make a perfect bun in a rush never turns out well. I take a deep breath and try to slow my spinning mind. I finish her bun and check the time. 10:45. It takes 5 minutes to get to the doctor’s office.
“I can start your makeup, but can Gramma do your eyes?” I’m grateful my Mom is here today; happy to let her take on some responsibilities. I rub foundation into her ivory cheeks and notice huge crocodile tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“Can’t Daddy take her?” she quietly asks. Hair and makeup has become a sacred ritual between us on dance performance days. She’s promised she’ll always let me help her, no matter how old she gets. I’m heartbroken to be pulled in two today.
“Would you want Daddy to take you to the doctor if you didn’t feel well?” Doing my best to keep my voice steady, I put my finger under her chin and tilt her head up to look her in the eye.
“No,” she says. “I guess not.”
“If I take her now, I should be home in no time. Don’t cry, or your makeup will run.” My stomach churns. She’s always anxious before performances. I want her to feel confident today, not disappointed or sad. Catching sight of the time—10:52—I stay positive. “Let’s see how much I can do before I have to leave.” Trying to stay calm, I apply blush and begin the work on her smokey eye. At 10:55, I tell her to let Gramma do her mascara, ask my mom to help pack her bag, and rush her sister out the door.
The doctor sees us as soon as we arrive. After a quick glance in both ears, she diagnoses a double ear infection and calls a prescription in. “Her sister has a dance recital today,” I say; “Is she okay to attend?” The doctor nods, informs us it’s not contagious, and sends us on our way.
Walking to the car from the doctor’s office, I text my husband. “Feed her lunch. I’ll be home in five minutes to finish her makeup.” When I get home, I apply a final coat of mascara and spray another round of hairspray. My mom did a fantastic job, but I can’t help but want to put on the final touches. I drop her at the theater. Then send my husband to pick up the prescription while I fix myself lunch.
An hour after the recital begins, I notice my youngest holding her ears. “The music is too loud,” she says; “it hurts my ears.” Looking at my watch, I realize the ibuprofen I gave her earlier has just worn off. Of course I didn’t bring any with me. I ask her if she wants to slip outside for a bit, but she shakes her head no. She loves watching her sister dance and doesn’t want to miss a beat.
We make it to intermission before she breaks down into tears. “I just want to go home,” she cries. We’ve come to the car to get away from the sound. There’s probably just over an hour left in the recital, but she can’t bear to stay any longer.
“I can take you home, but I have to come back to pick them up.” I wipe tears from her eyes and tell her I’m sorry she feels bad. “Is that okay?” She nods her head and buckles her seatbelt. Grateful that we only live twelve minutes away, I text my husband to tell him I’ve left my purse in the theater and I’ll be back to pick them up.
“Okay; be safe. Make her a snack.” I drive home, careful to obey the speed limit. Once we arrive, I have her put on pajamas while I prepare another dose of medicine. I give her a bowl of canned peaches and a sleeve of saltines, and help her snuggle under a blanket on the couch.
“Can I watch Doc McStuffins?” she asks.
“Sure. Daddy just texted there are only four dances left. We’ll be home in less than an hour.” I tell her to message me on her iPad if she needs anything, kiss her forehead, and race out the door. Devastated that I missed my oldest’s final dance, I get back to the theater just in time to catch the curtain call.
Three days later, I’m sitting at the table with my husband eating lunch. We just dropped my mom off at the airport and I’m making a list of what needs to be done before we leave for vacation in two days. “One kid wants me to take her to the craft store. I have three writing deadlines to meet. Both girls have haircuts, one has gymnastics, and my book club meets tomorrow night.” I spit it all out with barely a breath in between.
“You love book club!” He looks at me and smiles.
“I do, but I feel like there are too many demands on my time.” I take a few bites of my salad, thrown together with leftovers from last night. “Sunday about killed me. I am exhausted. So much happened. Everyone needed me. Now my Mom has gone back to Georgia. The to-do list is a mile long. I’m sad. I haven’t written in days. I’ve been going through the motions and haven’t stopped to allow myself to feel.”
He looks at me with crystalline eyes, unsure of what to say. In his silence, I continue. “If I got paid for my writing work, I would go in my office, shut the door, and meet my deadlines, right?” He nods his head. It is all the permission I need to leave dirty dishes all over the counter, send the kids outside and the puppy downstairs, make a cup of iced coffee and seclude myself for the afternoon.
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