A Normal Life

I glanced down at my planner as I shoved another bite of toaster-waffle into my mouth, careful not to let any sticky syrup drip onto my freshly pressed button-up.

“Honey, did you say you could pick up Rachel from practice?”  No response.

“Zed?”

I stomped up the stairs in my heels and pencil skirt, balancing my briefcase under my arm, gripping my coffee mug and lip liner in one hand and dragging the dog by the collar with the other. 

“Nathaniel James Briggens, I swear that if I have to take your dog outside one more time in the morning, I’m getting rid of him,” I said in passing to my sleepy-eyed, mussy-headed 12 year-old, thrusting the dog at him on my way to the bathroom.

“Zed?” I shouted, bursting into the bathroom. 

He jumped back, startled, and his flailing arms knocked into my coffee mug, painting a streak of coffee on my shirt.  I put my hand up to my forehead in defeat and sighed. 

I unbuttoned my soggy shirt and stepped up to the mirror next to my husband. 

“Rachel gets done at 6:00,” I said through stiff lips, outlining my mouth. “Are you gonna be able to get her?  I have a meeting until 5:45 or later.” 

“Ya, I was planning on it,” he said, looking at his watch. “Babe you gotta go. You’re late already.”

“As if I didn’t know that,” I grumbled, rushing to the room to toss on another shirt. 

“Everybody in the car by the time I come out of this room or you’re gonna wish you had Britney Spears for a mom!” I shouted to my kids as I shut the bedroom door. 

I finished taking off my soiled top and threw on another button-up and suit jacket.  I snatched the keys and cell phone off the end table, thrust them into my briefcase and rushed down the stairs and out to the car.

“Nathan, turn your music down.  We already have a stereo system in here.  Rachel, please make sure Louis is buckled,” I said as I strapped on my seat belt and put the car in reverse. 

The phone rang in my briefcase just as I had reached back to snatch a sucker out of Louis’ chubby fingers.

“You’ll be all sticky by the time I drop you off at school,” I said as I flipped open the phone to by greeted by an accusing, raspy voice—“Why me?” I quickly hung up, disturbed by the call, realizing that I must have picked up Zed’s phone off the end table on accident. 

No sooner had I dropped off the kids at school when it rang again.  Shaking and wondering what Zed had gotten into, I opened it, saying nothing. 

“You made a mistake,” the voice accused me before it hung up.  Suddenly, I felt myself being snatched out of the car by strong hands, struggling and kicking, grabbing for the phone that hung limp from its cord on the car charger where I had plugged it in only minutes before.