Is this just what motherhood is like? I wonder.
I’m parked in my driveway in my dad’s car. We traded cars since mine had the car seats—two car seats for two babies my parents have so kindly agreed to watch for the day so that I can write.
It was a hundred degrees at 8:45 am when I went to put the twins in the car. This wouldn’t have been an issue if I had been able to turn on the car and drive away, but one of the car seat bases was not secure. I pulled on the strap to secure it and nothing happened. I stood put my foot on the base and pulled harder. Nothing happened. I loosened the seat completely and repeated the process. The base was still loose. I was sweating now and stressing about how much I was sweating—making the sweating even worse.
I took the twins out of their car seats, as not to torture them while I sorted out the mess. I repeated the same process over and over, repositioning the base a few times. At 9:15 am, we were finally on the road. I dropped the babies off, and I headed to the coffee shop to get some writing done.
As I was getting out of the car, I grabbed my mask (Because, you know, global pandemic). Both straps were broken. This is the start of something tragic.
Every time I’ve tried to drop the girls off at my parents’ house so I can write, I never get around to writing. For four weeks in a row, I’ve encountered unfortunate event after unfortunate event. It’s as though the resistance that often arises inside of a writer has made its way out into the world to sabotage me.
I find a mask in the car and I think I’m spared of the unfortunate event, until I’m standing in line at the coffee shop and realize I don’t have my wallet.
I drove home, and now I’m sitting in the driveway in my dad’s car with my dad’s car key. My dad has my car key that’s attached to my house key—the key I need to open the door and get my wallet so I can purchase the coffee that will make me a patron of the coffee shop where I intend to write.
This is the moment when I wonder is this just what motherhood is like?