Small Pleasures
At a Glance
Section titled âAt a Glanceâ| Metadata | Details |
|---|---|
| Publication Date | 2022-09-01 |
| Journal | Prairie schooner |
| Authors | Amber Wheeler Bacon |
Abstract
Section titled âAbstractâSmall Pleasures Amber Wheeler Bacon (bio) I assumed all mothers had itâthe flash of anger, the humiliation and desperation I felt during my childâs tantrums in the Target toy aisle. Wanting to hurt the kids. It was nothing that seemed abnormal. My husband woke it up in me. This was before children. There was a work party to celebrate some client his law firm had landed. Jeff had been drinking before we got there. Hours later, I couldnât understand him through the slurring. It occurred to me watching him interact with a woman who sat at the front desk that she flipped her hair a lot around him. He didnât seem to mind. When we got to the car, he wanted to drive. I had one finger through the key ring and he tried wrenching the keys from my hand. I punched him in the chest to snap him out of it. The diamonds in my wedding band must have dug in. It was a shock to me: my ability to use brute force. Jeff was no small man, six feet two with meaty thighs and big hands. The only thing about his body that didnât turn me on was his puny shoulders. âYou hurt me,â he said, crouching with a hand over his heart. Iâd been drinking a little, too, just not as much. âYou want me to hurt you again?â I said. He got in the car after that. Gradually, a bruise flowered in the center of his breastbone, the color and size of a small plum. When I got pregnant, we moved from our beachfront condo in Litchfield to Surfside, the family beach. It was a longer commute for him, but if you ignored the block of beach homes off Ocean Parkway, it felt like a real neighborhood. We bought a newly built, Low Country style cottage pretending to be old. We argued about the yard. Jeff wanted to keep the cypresses in front of the house. I said they were old-fashioned; he said, traditional. As if it mattered to a baby. Once he saw the thriving American boxwoods, he agreed with me. I used the formula from Southern Living and packed the yard with fillers, spillers, and thrillers. [End Page 23] I walked up the front steps of our home every day and told myself that I was doing important work getting the yard under control. Curb appeal mattered. As my belly grew with Vi, the first one, we made decisions: no spanking, no sugar, no television. Wooden toys, we said. Books, lots of books. I did prenatal yoga and meditated in the mornings after my teacher told me I didnât know how to relax during Savasana. She said my fidgeting sent stress signals to the baby, that it was imperative I understood my role in the spiritual universe. So I woke up at 5 am, quiet in order not to wake Jeff. I padded across the floor barefoot, lit a candle, and sat cross-legged and stiff on the oak flooring. Images filled my head: a television advertisement for treadmills, a sewing pattern for a baby quilt, a memory of the Challenger explosion. That bruise on Jeffâs chest. After the second kid, Lilly, we decided against more children. It was evident to both of us that I wasnât good at mothering. I could be the noun, but I couldnât do the verbâI couldnât mother. When Lilly was less than a year old, I got lipo to get rid of my cellulite, somehow thinking smooth thighs would bring out the nurturer in me. Jeff said he loved me just the way I was, but I pushed for the surgery. He got a vasectomy right after. Our Christmas photo that year was a stunner, the family standing together on a rustic dock in the inlet, my legs long and lean amid the clumps of cordgrass all around. And behind usâthe sun on the rise. ________ I watched my children when they slept. Their faces were so round and perfect that I felt such a pressure in my chest I thought it had burstâŚ