Laverne stood in the middle of her
living room staring at the television. A black woman continued to whoop ass on
American Gladiators as Laverne gripped a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the
other. Her grip forced the underside of the dustpan to cut into her fingers
snapping out of the boobtube’s spell. “See this is why I don’t need to be
watching TV when I’m trying to clean.” With the television off, she turned to
her cassette collection to put her in the choring mood. That’s when she noticed
how quiet the house was. No music playing from the back bedroom, no clicking of
Lego pieces, no quiet snickering as someone read to himself.
Leaning the broom against a wall, she walked to the back of the
house and found all the lights out and all but one door closed. She gave it a
soft knock. Before anyone could answer, she cracked the door open without
looking in. “Are you okay in here?.”
“It’s stuck,” he moaned, positioning his Disney Adventures magazine to maintain modesty between mother and son.
She walked into the bathroom and flicked the light on. Trevon squinted as his eyes adjusted; he preferred to do shameful acts in the dark. “What do you mean, ‘It’s stuck’?”
Dangling his legs, he described it like a large prune pit that
scratched the inside of him but wouldn’t fully come out. “It’s playing a bad
game of peek-a-boo.”
She stifled her smirk. “And you been in here the whole time?” He
nodded. “Ooo, baby, we might have to take you to the hospital.”
Even though it was only four blocks away, Trevon shook his head in
protest. He could do this. He just had to keep pushing. Through a strained
voice he responded, “I think I feel it moving.”
“Ooup, ok, Trey, I’mma leave y--”
“No!” He shouted. He closed his magazine and placed it back atop
the covered radiator. “I need you. I think it helps.”
No one prepares you for parenthood, but this is one of those weird
moments that’s going to stick with both of you, Laverne thought. She sighed and sat on the edge of the bathtub to her son’s left. She felt him grab her hand
and hoped her son hadn’t suddenly become ambidextrous during his stint on the porcelain throne.
For the next twenty minutes, Trevon squeezed his mother’s hand to
simulate the same reaction internally. She winced as she noticed her son’s
grasp getting stronger. He was becoming a man in front of her eyes: a man who
had a shitty diet just like all the others. “I’m putting more greens in your
diet after this. And prunes.”
“Yes, please; spinach, please!” he requested.
She applauded herself for recording episodes of Popeye to VHS tape
for him to watch on repeat. “Sure thing, Trey. Just keep on squeezing.”
Diverting her eyes, she noticed more and more dust in her bathroom, wondering if eight was too young to start chores.
A high pitched “EEeeeeeee!” crashed her train of thought. Her hand
felt like it could break if his hand was a little bigger. And then there was a
large “THUNK” sound.
“I’m free!” Trevon threw both his hands up like a referee
signalling a touchdown. He turned his head to her. If that’s what childbirth
feels like, count me out,”
She laughed as she thanked the powers that be for saving her a probable costly trip to the ER. “Ok, you got it from here? I don’t want to get caught in your stinky take-forever to poop smell.” She stuck her tongue out and instantly regretted it.
He gave her a thumbs up, and she scurried out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Her eyes widened realizing she probably missed the end of the American Gladiators episode. Defeated, she stopped at the kitchen sink to wash her hands. Just another day in motherhood.
Word
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