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mismatched couch. I’m the boring job. I’m cramped New York City. And my wife doesn’t want to
be married to me anymore.
Adrie looks peaceful with her small body glued to Graham’s shoulder. Her little feet bob in beat to
Graham’s stride. She sleeps so hard. She doesn’t have a care in the world. I’m going to have to feed
her soon. And Michelle will be hungry too. Do I even have any snacks left? It’s ten in the morning
and I’ve already said “No” to Michelle a million times. Goodness, are we always butting heads?
She walks so confidently ahead. It’s like she doesn’t even need us. Was that how I walked from my
parents years ago?
Adrie makes a noise. It’s amazing how calm Michelle and Adrie look when they’re fast asleep. Their
lives are filled with more rest than anything else. I am so tired. I feel numb to all this...Aughh,
we’re in the Netherlands I should be the happiest girl in the world. I tuck my hair behind my ears
and rub my pointer finger and thumb back and forth across my head.
I should dye my hair blue. I’ve always wanted to do that.
Graham sees Michelle twirl around in three circles then fall on her bum. He acts like this is the
most entertaining thing to ever happen to him. He bursts into chuckles and points. I push a soft
smile. How does he do it? How does he get so excited for every little thing? I mean it was thrilling
at first, but now we’re just doing the same thing every day.
My life goes through patterned motions of making messes and then cleaning them up. Over and
over and over again. I put the kids in clean clothes only to have throw-up, dirt, food, and crap
decorate them in a matter of minutes. Then I wash the clothes, wash the kids and start over again
the next day. I make a mess cooking then have to clean it up. I make a mess with toys, trying to
distract Michelle for forty-minutes so that I can have a few minutes to myself, then I have to gather
them all up. I’ve become a dried paint brush. If I’m put through one more mess and one more
clean-up, I’ll snap.
Graham tries so hard. So. Hard. Graham says “the messes are part of the beauty.” But he doesn’t
have to clean most of those “works of art.” He treads lightly around me. I feel like he’s always trying
to depict what’s wrong with me so that he can fix it, like one of his floor plans. And the other night,