The Note

There was a note on Sam's backpack when I picked him from school yesterday. I didn't even notice it until we were already at home. It said "Please bring Sam's Valentines by Wednesday. Thanks." That's it. Nothing more. And yet I felt like it was accusing me of something. It might as well have said "Hey lady! You know how you failed your husband? Now you've failed your kid too! Get your shit together, go to Walmart, and pick up some flippin Valentines for your kid!" It's amazing how one stupid yellow Post-It can send my mind into a tailspin. But I did what the note "said." I took Sam to Walmart, he/we picked out some Valentines and we were all set to pay and then the line was too long. The cashier was too slow. There were too many people. We waited in that stupid line for over 20 minutes. Sam kept kicking my legs, pulling my hair, trying to bite my fingers, anything to keep himself entertained. He was tired of sitting. Tired from an afternoon at school. Hungry for dinner. Hungry for home.  I was tired of standing, hungry for dinner, hungry for home. Hungry for the kind of normalcy that's been so disrupted the last few days and will probably continue to be for a long time to come. And I couldn't handle it. I stood in that line trying to convince myself to be patient, to wait, that the Valentines were all we needed and we should get what we came for. But I couldn't do it. While one part of me knew I should stick it out, the rest of me wanted to curl up in a little ball and cry or stand on top of the counter and yell. I was just so incredibly angry, in that moment. In line at freakin' Walmart. I am trying to give a shit. Trying to care about those Valentines  because my son needs them for school. But I don't care. Valentines is a huge crock and I'm too angry, too bitter, and too alone to even think about how cute it would be to watch him "sign" his cards. The wound is still too fresh. I haven't even begun to think about what bandaging it. It's just bloody and raw and exposed. So I did what any sane person would do, I took it out on the manager who came out of her office at the  behest of another frustrated Walmart patron to see what the problem was. If only I could have told her, "Look I'm not truly angry at you. Any other day the slow cashier and the long line would have just been a passing annoyance. But this just coincides with a whole list of things that are wrong in my life right now and I am incapable of the logical thought it would take to just stick it out and pay for my stuff. I'm really angry at myself and I apologize that you have to take the brunt of it. It's either sound off on you or cry and I really am tired of crying. If it makes you feel any better, I will cry later. When Sam is in carseat and can't see my face, after he's gone to bed and the house is quiet and I am truly and completely alone. I'll cry in bed before I go to sleep. I'll cry when I realize I can't reach the stupid fan to dust the blades. I'll cry when I am vacuuming to cover the sound. I'll cry when I wake up in the morning. When it's too early to move and  my eyes are heavy from not enough sleep. But I can't cry here in this line of angry people. I can't let anyone see my face and see how ashamed I am that this has happened. That I've let this happen. That I've failed. Because even though they won't know and probably won't care why I'm crying, I will." But I didn't tell her that. I handed her the bag of Goldfish crackers that I had opened to try to buy some time before Sam demanded dinner and I left my cart full of Valentines, odds and ends, and Drano to pour down the stupid slow moving drain in front of her and stormed out of the store. Nearly running with my 30 pound toddler in my arms. A race with myself, to see if I could make it to my car before the tears really started going. And I made it. That was my only victory yesterday; I made it to the car before anyone could see me cry. This morning, the note is still on Sam's backpack. That accusatory note that sent me on that failed mission. And today I have to try again.