When I Ran Away, Ilona Bannister [read 50 shades of grey TXT] 📗

Thirty seconds later, a whisper: “Jeej, can we go to the newzzeum and see the dinosaurs?”

This is the point at which other mothers at pre-school drop-off with successful careers and good shoes say, “Then I just give him the iPad and he leaves me alone for an hour.” But me and Johnny aren’t in the financial position for an iPad so I have to use old-school methods.

“Hey, Johnny, can you put your cars in a line that goes from my bed all the way to the kitchen?” That may sound like a big project unless you understand the tiny dimensions of a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. It’s technically a two-bedroom, because they put up two walls and split the kitchen in half to make a windowless space that fits a twin bed and nothing else. It doesn’t even fit a small person wanting to walk around the bed. You just have to dive onto it from the doorway. Which has no door. Because, as I pointed out to the real estate agent, it’s not a bedroom. Don’t get me started on the bathroom.

I try for ten more minutes of half-sleep but as the sun rises over Brooklyn and comes through the cracks in the blinds the conveyer belt in my mind cranks up. Student loans, rent, day care. Send Dad a hundred bucks. Don’t turn the heat on yet, not till the end of the month. I wish I got that promotion. You got to let that go, Gigi. I know but don’t they see I do the hours? I just do them when Johnny’s asleep? Next time, Jeej. Don’t drive yourself crazy. I know, but I need the money if we’re ever going to get out of this apartment. My tooth hurts. How long can I avoid going to the dentist? Will it just go away? No, Jeej. You have to go to the dentist. If I had got that job they would’ve given me dental cover. You have to go to the dentist because if your teeth start rotting you’ll definitely never meet someone. Meet someone? Who am I going to meet? Nobody wants a thirty-something toothless paralegal with a kid. And when would I meet this person anyway? There’s never any time. There’s never any time. Johnny needs new shoes. Dammit. Why are his feet so huge? I’ll stop buying coffee when I’m out. Pack lunch every day for work. Cancel my haircut. Return that dress. Jeej, it was only twenty bucks. I know. But he needs a coat and shoes and I need to go to the dentist. Cancel the cable TV. Really? It’s just basic. You’re right, though. I can’t meet the girls for drinks. Not if Sharon’s having that party for her kid. I can’t show up without a present and I can’t afford to go to drinks and get a present and buy coffee because the loan payments are due for the college that I finished and the law school that I didn’t to become the lawyer that I’m not. Why didn’t I finish? You would’ve been finished this year if you stayed with it. I know. But who would’ve taken care of Johnny? You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do work and law school and Johnny. I can’t afford everything. I have a good job for one person. I got enough money for one person with huge loans. But I’m not one person. I got this other very small, very expensive person too. I can’t do everything and remember everything. I’m everything, I have to be everything…

CRASH. THUMP. “Owwww, ouchie ouchie!”

Johnny shouts and I leap out of bed, scoop him up, hug and hug and rock and rock, all of his little body still fitting within the circle of my arms. I start singing our song, “Like a Prayer.”

“Just breathe, Johnny—In the midnight hour—just breathe, you’re OK. Did you jump off the couch again?”

“Yes, my wrist,” he says, pointing to his elbow. “It’s broken.”

“Let me check, let me see if these kisses will work, and by the way, this is your elbow,” and I cover his elbow with kisses, then I turn into Mama Bear and sniff around him, sniff his shoulder and under his chin which turns his tears into fits of giggles and finally I launch a tickle attack. “You’re cured. Now let me brush my teeth. Make me a coffee, please?”

“No, Jeej.”

“Why not? Could you learn to do something useful already?”

“NOOOOO, JEEJ. I am a children, coffee is hot.”

“OK, you’ve got a point.”

“Jeej, can I have juice?”

“In a minute, baby.” I walk to the bathroom rubbing my eyes, trying to remember if I bought juice. He looks forward to juice on Saturdays, the only day it’s allowed. That’s not a limiting sugar thing. That’s a budget thing. A small pint of orange juice and a slice once a week. He’s happy with cheap and simple things now but it won’t always be this way. There’ll be video games and sneakers and cell phones and a growing boy who’ll need huge quantities of food and I’ve got to do better than this.

“You can do it,” I say to myself over the bathroom sink. Then I read the affirmations on the Post-its I put all around the edge of the mirror. I thought it was a stupid idea when I read about it in an Oprah magazine that somebody left behind on the subway. But, in a moment of desperation while pressing send to make my student loan payment, I thought it was worth a try. Cheaper than a therapist. I am enough. What I do today is good enough. I am strong and I can stand on my own. Actually, I’m lonely and tired and stressed, but don’t tell the mirror.

We get ready for our trip to the playground in Manhattan. We run into Abuela, the old Dominican lady who lives in 3C and tells everyone to call her Grandma, and help her take her groceries upstairs. We wave