On Monday were were walking home from the grocery store when gray clouds invaded the sky and almost without warning we were caught in the rain. I was on the phone with Angela in San Francisco, in the midst of crisis. So I ran. I ran in my boots past high school kids unfazed by the weather. I ran along Broadway and up Beech, and meanwhile Malcolm was calling in and he was waiting in the window for us, a beacon.
I knew that Violet had shit her pants at the library. I didn't have a diaper and didn't feel like going back. So I was not surprised when I peeled off the diaper to discover yellow brown poo all the way up her back which got on her feet, face, and my sweater; it was my fault. I called Angela back, cradling the phone between shoulder and ear, swabbing Violet from shoulder to bum. Then I brought her into the bath.
Angela is crying in California, "confused but convinced" and Violet is crying in the tub. I am dabbing poop from her cheek with a cloth and trying to keep my tiny daughter from standing up on her wet and wobbly legs. I want to offer my best friend my undivided attention. But my attention is no longer my own to give. I have to stop writing now because Violet is somewhere in the dining room or kitchen and it's my job to stop her from pulling down the silver and Clorox.
No comments:
Post a Comment