She asks me for a ride, again.
Fine, just this once. I scowl inwardly.
This chauffeuring request removes my slim window to work out, wash my hair, feel like a full human.
But fine, yes, get in, get in, close the door, not that one, this one. Grab your shoes -Yes-both! C'mon, come'mon!
We load up, back out, roll away up and down hills.
Somehow she finds the audacity, tucked away, to ask:
Can we go to Starbucks?
—I feel the flames forming in my larynx—
"It's for my TEACHERS, Mom! It's Teacher Appreciation Week, LITERRALLLLLY." She chides.
I swallow my scream, push it down. For the teachers.
"Do you even know their orders?" My voice is meek, chastened.
"MOM—OBVIOUSLY! I asked yesterday."
I close my eyes as briefly as a 4-way Stop can allow. I throw down my turn signal, glide left.
We park, far, far away from the melee that is the local market parking lot.
She's trotted off in front of me, she's got a long mission in front of her, decoding her scribbled notes from yesterday to the barista: "mach-ta latte, no dairy, hot"; "hot chocolate, whipped cream too"; "chai latte no milk preference?"
While she's queuing for caffeine, something purple catches my eye.
May Day Flowers perkily jostle in the morning breeze.
Despite a steady flow of patrician workers flowing all around me, I risk pausing, kneeling, getting a closer look.
I pull out my iPhone, take enough time to slide the camera app into Portrait mode, and take one frame.
"I'll snap the flowers myself," I think.
Somewhere, deep inside me, a little grace for myself, and a bit of contorted pride blooms up, for my kid who is so cutting to me, but so kind to others.
I breakfast on flowers, which keep me sated long after I drop her off.
