Short Story: The Days Are Long

By Kathryn Gibson

Short Story: The Days Are Long
A family shop with her kids became a disaster when they caused a scene in the supermarket. Now, with a screaming baby, an ear-splitting six-year-old and a weeping middle child, could she somehow get some help?

It was hard to tell what hit the nostrils first; the acidic, herby scent of pasta sauce or the waft of meaty faeces. Glass crunched on the concrete as her eldest stood covered from the knees down in a jar of ‘Dolmio Red Wine and Italian Herbs’. He flashed her a wicked grin, eyes alight with mischief, knowing he’d finally caught her attention.

And well timed, too, as his younger brother had just pushed out a number two in the same moment. Eughh!

She raised the back of her hand to cover her nose as reality thundered in like an overwhelming wave. Rooted to the spot, face blanched, she was still holding a packet of macaroni when a middle-aged lady jolted the mind into gear.

“Would you like any help, dear?” A bright soft face of one that’d tell her the years were short. A kind, but meaningless idea, as quite frankly, “no… no I don’t really know … I just need to get to a toilet”, was her mumbling answer.

Jumbled thoughts bounced off the back of her eyeballs while pushing a rather heavy trolley to the other end of the aisle. She scanned for a counter.

Perhaps an assistant could provide actual assistance?

“I don’t want to go to the toilet!” Yes. He would, wouldn’t he. Her oldest had heels that made ruts in cement floors. Although it was not a toilet he needed, nor a toilet she intended for him, his active little body hit the floor with gusto. When smashing a glass jar doesn’t get attention, then something else needs to take its place.

Nobody, but Mum, noticed his younger brother was waddling past the spaghetti with a pair of sodden pooey pants. They drooped low, reaching closer and closer to a floor that’d already suffered a great deal of damage, thanks to her family. Oh dear. It’d not been the plan. Graham was supposed to return that morning. He’d been away for a week. One whole, child-free week. He complained it was in Auckland, because, well, the traffic. The traffic. Oh the humanity, suffering through a week of Auckland traffic! Hardly comparable as far as Alice was concerned. A week of solo parenting was a more daunting cliff face to climb. Mind you, she had managed.

But when he rang to say the plane was delayed, her stomach dropped. When disappointment strikes, like a snake, it slowly fills the body with venom; spreading, and numbing, until the mind no longer knows which way to turn. A spiralling blanket of grey descended on her heart. She needed a break.

Well, she had been hoping to go grocery shopping. Alone. This was her favourite form of “break”, though it seemed odd. Alice couldn’t switch off any other way. The heavy guilt that crashed in while stirring froth in a café full of 20-something childless children was too much. She just couldn’t do that kind of “relaxing” anymore. It made no difference, other than to recall all the things she knew she should be doing. Doing was exhausting. Doing nothing was exhausting – too hard to fight the responsibility.

So, with a very long sigh, she began to pick herself back up. A gritting bit of self-motivation, the desire to complete a task, overtook logic.

“Kids! Shoes. We’re going to New World.”

All logic was driven madly from her mind, because in what world did someone decide it’s a good idea to complete a family shop with all three of her children: one newborn (she usually slept anyway … sometimes … well, maybe this time?), one toilet training, and the oldest.

The oldest. Yes. He was six-and-a-half now. Cunning. Stubborn. Difficult. Creative. And restlessly curious.

Taking him out in public was like asking someone to tether a tornado to a pole: disaster tourism for the brave.

But, this time, maybe after a week of managing alone, perhaps this time, it wouldn’t be so bad?

It’ll be fine. It’ll be difficult, it’ll be tiring, but Graham would be home by twelve, “And then I can have a rest. It’ll be fine. Yes. It’ll be fine.” She needed to get them out of the house.
But now, the baby was awake. And she was hungry. And she was screaming. And she also smelt of poo. Because what was parenting, if not always smelling poo? Weirdly, Alice was proud of her ability to smell poo.

A peculiar thought, she realised, but necessary. Others would be oblivious to what lurked in their presence. Then she’d walk into a room occupied by her children, and what should she smell? Yes: a poo.

“How do you do that?!” Was a common phrase uttered by the husband, the grandparents, the babysitter … yes. Poo detective. One of her many titles.

But this thought was not something to dwell on, as the baby’s little nose screwed up tight, eyes jammed shut, mouth wide open, with howls increasing in decibels as the seconds ticked by. She really hated her capsule. The shop assistant couldn’t hear. Newborn wailing embellished the panic.

“Please, I just need someone to look after my trolley. Can I just leave it here? I will come back. I just need to get my middle one to the toilet.”

Pimples on the teenager’s face went white looking at the mess before him. He nodded slowly and moved her trolley next to the window.

Dragging ‘The Mess’ to the toilet, she called out cautiously, “Oh, and aisle four. Needs someone to clean the floor … I’m so sorry!” Her eldest left a trail of tomatoey sauce in his wake.
I mean, it had been a good start. The kids ate most of their breakfast, were dressed (not eloquently, mind you: the first one still had Hulk pyjama bottoms on, and the second chose jandals), shoes shod on and got into the car quite quickly. And boy, did that walk from the recently clicked-in children to the driver’s seat feel good! It was like a symphony of freedom, a ballet of sorts as she moved from the back door of her youngest to the front. She could hear Clair De Lune in the wind, as she lingered over the door handle, breaking out some interpretive dance movements before opening the door.

Even getting out of the car went to plan; an unusual surprise. The oldest obeyed, the middle one, with his healthy fear of the car park, placed a clammy hand on her thigh, and the baby slept! She was still asleep when placed on the trolley. Still asleep in the veggie aisle. Still asleep during the argument over Coco Pops, and while she lingered over the cheapest free-range eggs. Because, you know, she cared about the chickens, or rather, what people might think of her not caring about the chickens.

But of course, as she stood with a screaming baby, an ear-splitting six-year-old, and a now weeping middle child, she found the toilet door to be locked. Of course. Of course! Because, well … of course.

She quickly located the place for the key, which was apparently safeguarded by the lotto counter lady: a woman on the verge of retirement who smelt like the cleaning liquid she drank for breakfast.

Lotto lady currently had a narrow glare drilling into a middle-aged man from the streets. He was insisting on yet another scratchie. Always the way this time of day. He’d had sympathy at the door and collected a few bob. Perhaps his sign drummed up concern from the public, or maybe some knew he’d leave if they gave. Many thought he was looking for food. I mean, to be fair, he had used some of his winnings on a can of Red Bull and a pie.

Now, in a shrewd move, he had the chance to advance his earnings with an investment. Of sorts … But he lingered (oh how he lingered!), over his last $2; imagining a crisp $100 note to end his morning.

She could more than smell her son’s pants now. An oozing brown liquid began trickling onto the floor.

“Stay where you are,” she muttered, as the homeless one finally moved on. “I’ll pick you up in a minute, okay?” Thank goodness at least one of her children listened.

Beady-eyed, the woman peered through her half-glasses, centred on the end of her nose. “Hmmm. The key. Well …” Because long pauses were just the thing missing from this situation. “Are you a customer?”

The urge to bang her own head on the counter was overwhelmingly difficult to resist. “Yes. Please, I need the key. My son is desperate.”

“Well … we had a mother ask last week. They weren’t exactly a customer,” she sniffed. Her left hand adjusted her glasses, and she raised her pointy nose. Why she felt the need to deny a desperate person’s plea in such a compromising situation (exactly customer or not) was difficult to understand.

“Well, that’s my trolley over there.” Alice’s eyes narrowed. Blood pumped loudly in her ears. “It’s awaiting my return.” She held out a sweaty hand, expectantly. The woman looked at it with disdain. Alice stared, eyebrows furrowing. Slowly, the key was detached from its hook in a delicate fashion and leisurely handed over.

Capsule in hand, poo liquid boy on hip, tomato sauce sponge screaming out behind her, Alice unclicked the door and the clean-up began.

Pants off, wipes out. Replace tomato sauce with too-short, younger brother pants. Poo in toilet, wipe, wipe, wipe. “Don’t worry Sarah, I’ll get to you soon!” Shoes off boys, bag it up, bin the undies. Wipe bums, replace nappy, re-dress, wash hands. Repack the bag.

Finally, they emerged, no longer oozing with a wide variety of bodily fluids and cooking sauce. Only a screaming baby to feed.

Settling onto a nearby bench, Alice watched the boys race up and down the foyer, not bothering to discipline because, “Who cares, I’ll never meet these people again, anyway.”

Quarter of an hour later she returned the key. Her tight-lipped response did nothing to make life easier, but then what would? Time? That’s what they all love to say, isn’t it? The days are long, but the years are short. And thank the heavens at least something is short, right?

She was about to turn back to her trolley when she heard a kind voice; soft and bright. The well-meaning lady was pushing a trolley – a big trolley, with a lot of family-sized packs of muesli bars, corn chips, milk and toilet paper. It looked very similar to Alice’s trolley … hang on!

“You look a lot calmer. I’m so pleased you found a toilet, after all.”

“Oh! Yes. We did. Yes.”

“I hope you don’t mind, dear, but … well, I saw you left your list here in the trolley. Just looked like you needed a bit of help. I hope I got the right brands.”

“What?”

“Oh gosh, I really hope you don’t mind,” she said, laying a gentle hand on Alice’s shoulder. “I just saw you and thought, ‘My goodness, that poor woman! Such a lot on her plate.’ I couldn’t think of anything worse … I do hope you get a bit of a rest this afternoon?”

Tears. Trailing down her cheeks. Blurring the freckles with the rest of her skin. The dam had held so strong all week. The fissures finally ruptured.

“Oh goodness! I’m sorry! I hope I didn’t offend you!”

“No! No! No, I … thank you! Just …”

What else could she say?

“Thank you!”

It was an overwhelming wave. But golden and bright … this time; gratitude. Hope.

“Yes. Well, goodness, no I just thought … the last thing you’d want to do is a shop after all that! It’s not as if I haven’t been in your shoes. I remember those days so well … they were so long. But looking back on it, the years were short.

 

Author: Kathryn Gibson

Kathryn is married to Joshua, where they live with their two very busy, small children, in Christchurch. Kathryn has a degree in theatre from Otago University, experience in primary teaching and children’s church ministry. Kathryn has also been enjoying books all her life. Writing is one of her expressions for an overactive imagination. Attempts at a novel may happen depending on how many nappies need to be changed in the next few years.

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