Another bruise. This time on her thigh, just above her knee. It was not as angry as the one on her hip that she'd noticed in yesterday's shower, she consoled herself.
Old habits die hard. Almost three decades on, and she still hadn't completely shaken her compulsive obsessing over imperfections.
She reviewed yesterday's list. Splattered in the face with oil when she cooked. He own stupid fault for rushing. Clawed on the neck when she'd struggled to administer Aaron's antibiotics. He's only two, an instinctual fight reaction to what he perceives as a harmful event, she reasoned. Noticeably more grey hairs sprouting, probably triggered by this very act of fretting. Stop it!
The shower was set to 55 degrees celcius. Too hot to stand in for longer than a few moments at a time, though being the queen of calvary, she fought against the urge to adjust the faucet.
The scald transported her to early childhood. Her grandmother would bathe her in a temperature not unlike this one. Back then, she loathed the ritual. Her delicate skin would be fastidiously scrubbed with a course loofah, the suds washed off with scoop after scoop of simmering water. Afterwards, as painful as it had been, she knew she was the cleanest she could be, and that made it tolerable. In years to come, her mantra would be informed by these rituals: no pain, no gain.
She stepped out into the mirrored bathroom. The pre-dawn rays that fought their way through the frosted glass window were far kinder than she ever was. The lines that had been drawn into her skin by six pregnancies were barely visible in this light. Still, she could not escape their presence. She glanced at her reflection. Her eyes were tired, increasingly framed with imperfect creases. And her hair...
'Mum-mee, mum-meeeee!'
Sweet interruption. The shower's silence must have woken him. That, or little searching hands that couldn't find her to snuggle. A little earlier than she'd hoped, but not unusual for her co-sleeper.
She hurriedly dressed, as she called out reassuring words.
"I'm right here, darling. I'll be there in a minute!"
Aaron had other ideas. He was fast becoming accustomed to the way of instant gratification. When he wanted mummy, he got mummy.
He burst through the bathroom door, skidding on the damp floor towards his mother, immediately extending his cherubic arms into the air.
"Mummy, hug!", he instructed.
Not yet fully clothed, she scooped him up into her arms, covering him in kisses. She breathed in his sleepy fragrance, cradling his head on her chest.
Her reflection was transformed.
Framed perfectly, as if a Pino Daeni painting, a blemishless impression of a beautiful child and his mother. She gazed at this sublime image, welcoming relief.
The demons would not win today.
She smiled.
Old habits die hard. Almost three decades on, and she still hadn't completely shaken her compulsive obsessing over imperfections.
She reviewed yesterday's list. Splattered in the face with oil when she cooked. He own stupid fault for rushing. Clawed on the neck when she'd struggled to administer Aaron's antibiotics. He's only two, an instinctual fight reaction to what he perceives as a harmful event, she reasoned. Noticeably more grey hairs sprouting, probably triggered by this very act of fretting. Stop it!
The shower was set to 55 degrees celcius. Too hot to stand in for longer than a few moments at a time, though being the queen of calvary, she fought against the urge to adjust the faucet.
The scald transported her to early childhood. Her grandmother would bathe her in a temperature not unlike this one. Back then, she loathed the ritual. Her delicate skin would be fastidiously scrubbed with a course loofah, the suds washed off with scoop after scoop of simmering water. Afterwards, as painful as it had been, she knew she was the cleanest she could be, and that made it tolerable. In years to come, her mantra would be informed by these rituals: no pain, no gain.
She stepped out into the mirrored bathroom. The pre-dawn rays that fought their way through the frosted glass window were far kinder than she ever was. The lines that had been drawn into her skin by six pregnancies were barely visible in this light. Still, she could not escape their presence. She glanced at her reflection. Her eyes were tired, increasingly framed with imperfect creases. And her hair...
'Mum-mee, mum-meeeee!'
Sweet interruption. The shower's silence must have woken him. That, or little searching hands that couldn't find her to snuggle. A little earlier than she'd hoped, but not unusual for her co-sleeper.
She hurriedly dressed, as she called out reassuring words.
"I'm right here, darling. I'll be there in a minute!"
Aaron had other ideas. He was fast becoming accustomed to the way of instant gratification. When he wanted mummy, he got mummy.
He burst through the bathroom door, skidding on the damp floor towards his mother, immediately extending his cherubic arms into the air.
"Mummy, hug!", he instructed.
Not yet fully clothed, she scooped him up into her arms, covering him in kisses. She breathed in his sleepy fragrance, cradling his head on her chest.
Her reflection was transformed.
Framed perfectly, as if a Pino Daeni painting, a blemishless impression of a beautiful child and his mother. She gazed at this sublime image, welcoming relief.
The demons would not win today.
She smiled.
