Macaroni

Chapter 1

"No more macaroni, I swear, if I see another box of macaroni and cheese, I'll scream! Macaroni and hot dogs. Macaroni and broccoli. Macaroni and stewed tomatoes. Macaroni and tuna. No more no more no more no more no more!"

And that was lunch, another day, another empty day just like all of the others, filled with cleaning up macaroni on the kitchen table, waiting for the day to end so she could sleep, and be alone, and probably drink to get there. Wine after 5pm was the rule, and it was a stretchy rule. It was a sketchy rule. Should Bebe be drinking at all when she was the only adult in the house of three kids under five? But then she'd tell herself that it wasn't like she lived in the countryside. She had neighbors. She had friends. In case of an emergency, she had a plan, with a list of emergency contacts on the fridge like a good grown up. "I'm a grown up", she'd tell herself, and wash the dishes. "I'm a grown up", she'd tell herself, and pay the power bill. "I'm a grown up" she'd tell herself, and go out in the rain and unclog the gutters even though it was the city's responsibility and she had three kids under five and a husband half a world away who was handsome and successful and who would be proud of her for being a grown up.

So Bebe kept being a grown up even when she wanted to scream and cry and run through the grocery store dumping food on the ground. She had a fantasy that she'd get locked up overnight in a private jail cell for the mentally questionable and get some time to herself. She loved her children and she hated them. It was complicated, and too complicated to tell a therapist about, or her mother, or certainly her perfect husband, who wasn't really perfect, but absence makes the heart grow forgetful of husbandly defects. Bebe was convinced child protective services was outside the door when the  neighborhood voting canvasers knocked on the door on a lovely Saturday afternoon. When the dog barked at the mailman, she thought it was the police. She missed adult contact. Craved it. Dreamt about how to get it. Thought about picking a man up at a bar so she could get some attention, then castigated herself for days for having such an evil thought. What a mess.

Millie, the dog, lay beside her all night, quietly breathing, keeping the bed hot, her nose between her front legs, so cute Bebe kept looking over at her, watching her breathe. Up and down. Up and down. Millie's eyes opened slightly so that it looked like she was watching Bebe watching her, knowing she was being watched, raising her head to look around the room, readjusting into a similar position, and closing her eyes again.

Bebe spent hours at night watching television, long series she binged, not so much because she wanted television, but because she needed something to do, and watching television was something to do. She considered volunteering, like the neighborhood canvasers, or at a call center to encourage people to vote, but then she'd tell herself that the kids needed her. They hated being left with a babysitter, and she felt ragged with guilt every time she left them with someone else. Casey was saving lives somewhere and the least she could do was take care of three small children on her own, and be strong, and stay beautiful even though the mirror said something far different. No one 36 years old should look so haggard, she told herself. Because 34 looked a whole hell of a lot younger and even though it was pregnant with two small children, it felt a whole hell of a lot better.