I’ve picked up my daughter from a slumber party. Now the car is full – daughter, son, dog, and me.

“Well, did you do the whip cream trick [squirt whip cream on a sleeping person’s hand, tickle her nose with a feather, PLOP!]?”

“No.”

“Are you tired?" [She went to sleep at 3am.]

“No.”

“What are your friend’s parents like?”

I am curious, because all I know of the father is a loud roar that came from a bedroom with the door shut, “Shut that dog up!”

“I don’t know.”

Okay, I get it. Just let the silence in the car be. Better yet, play the sixth track of the CD my daughter burned for use in the car. It’s “Don’t Matter” by Akon, for the 40th time. My daughter and I sing it together. “Yes, we gonna fight, fight for our right to lovin’” I think I might know why I love this song so much – its cadence and sweet sentiment remind me of Howard Huet, a crooner whose music my husband and I fell in love listening to 12 years ago.

We get to Home Depot. I mean to buy a Dremel engraver, because I am tired of losing plastic containers and dishes at schools and potluck parties. My daughter wants to stay in the car; I see no good reason why she shouldn’t. My two-year old son (two and a half, he tells anyone who will listen) wants to ride his bike. I do have a good reason not to let him – he’s apt to run into the ankles of an unsuspecting pedestrian in the warehouse. But, I find it difficult to resist the pleasure he derives gliding around, lifting his feet six inches off the ground, and swaying left and right. I also know that for every startled and irritated pedestrian, there are ten citizens whose mood is improved by this little joyful boy on a pretty wood bike with red handlebars and seat.

We find the engraver. I find some cleaner for the laminate floor in my kitchen, which has become hazy with so many layers of half removed dirt and food. As we move toward the cash registers, I spot my soon-to-be ex-husband walking toward us. He veers to his left, seemingly oblivious to me. I comment to myself, “You see, if we were still together, one of us wouldn’t be here right now. One of us would be home playing with the kids while the other was doing a Home Depot run. Now you’re stuck putting another household together.”

I stop and think some more. Should I say hi? Do I want to say hi? Not really, well maybe, he is still such a handsome guy. Okay then, the answer is yes. But wait, would it throw my son off to see his father? Would I have to do a lot of explaining why he must leave his dad right after saying hi? I decide that I can handle greeting him. I seek him out. I spot him with a woman. I veer away. Maybe not, I think. I don’t want to subject myself to that headache just yet.

But, maybe I can spy.

I peek around the corner, coward that I am. He’s standing by the two by fours. He’s facing toward me talking to the woman. No sign of jocularity at all, not affection, not ease, just stone serious. Her hair is dirty blonde. She can’t possibly be as pretty as I am, sagging 43 year old, with swatches of gray at my temples, notwithstanding.

My son, our son, waits for me as I pay for the engraver and laminate floor cleaner. We join my daughter who’s seated in the driver’s seat, feet on the dashboard, doors locked, reading "Dear Dumb Diary." The kids argue. The little one finally positions himself in his car seat. He clicks the top buckle, I click the bottom one. We drive home and listen “Don’t Matter” twice more.

By Vicki Inglis

Labels: Vickie Inglis

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