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Description
PARENTING

The child had made a spectacle of a mess, which was the reason the she was out shopping for cleaning supplies. She pushed her cart through the aisles of the store, looking for a favorable brand of detergent. She wasn't going to buy a lot of items, but she preferred pushing the carts than having to hang the basket on her arm. The child had been left home alone, although she had been against the idea at first. Besides, she couldn't have brought the child in the state that it was in, even if she had left it in the car. And the mess had to be cleaned quickly, before her husband got home.
She sighed as she picked up a new detergent that promised a spotless shine guaranteed! She put two of these in her cart and proceeded further down the aisle. She wasn't sure if she had enough sponges back at the house to clean that mess; better go get some. As she turned into the next aisle, she remembered her mother's words spoken to her while she had lain in the hospital bed after she'd given birth to the child.
The nurse had taken the child away to be checked for any conditions—the routine examinations. Her mother had stood by her side during the delivery and she stood by her now, smiling at her daughter and holding her hand.
"You're a mother now," she had said.
"You will understand what it is to be a parent. There will be times of frustration, but you will have to pull through. I am proud of you."
The first few weeks had been torturous. She could find no appeasement to end the child's constant crying. Through it all, she remembered her mother's words.
As she pushed the cart to the cashier, she stopped to pick up a pack of black garbage bags. Definitely needed to be extra hefty. She paid the girl at the register and took her purchased items to her car. She had to get back quickly; she didn't want to leave the child alone too long. As she began to drive in the direction of her home, she hoped no one had discovered the mess. They couldn't, not unless someone broke in and went into the upstairs bathroom. She decided that she was being slightly paranoid and pushed the thought out of her head. All she would have to do was get the mess cleaned up and there would be no problems.
She stopped at an intersection to let a young couple with a stroller cross the street. The child in the stroller looked the same age as her own. She had a violent thought of pressing the acceleration pedal and running over the family, the car bumping over their bodies. It would be so easy, causing no effort on her part.
She gripped the steering wheel tightly. Why had she thought that?
The honk of a car behind her pulled her back from her thoughts. The family was already walking away on the other side of the sidewalk. She drove the few blocks that remained to her home and parked the car in the garage. She didn't get out immediately. She sat in the car, still gripping the steering wheel. The watch on her wrist read 1:30. Her husband wouldn't be home for another hour. It would be enough time to get the mess upstairs cleaned up.
The first thing she noticed as she entered the kitchen was the quiet.
"No more crying," she thought, and smiled.
She put the items she had bought on the countertop and hung up her jacket in the hallway closet. She went into her bedroom to change into some old clothes. She found some worn out sweat pants and an old shirt that once said something on the front but was now too faded to read. She tied her hair up into a bun; no sense of making herself more dirty than needed.
She went back into the kitchen and got the sponges, detergents, and garbage bags. She was about to go upstairs when she stopped at the foot of the stairs. Looking up, she could see the door to the bathroom—the bathroom where the mess had been made. She sighed, knowing that her task would be tedious. She could leave no spot, no sign that would suggest that the mess had ever been there. The mess wouldn't have been as big if she hadn't been so angry, so furious. All she had been doing was giving the child a bath, simply washing it, when it had begun to cry.
She looked down at the items in her hands, knowing that she had to get started, that her husband would be home soon. And he would not stand for that mess, no siree he wouldn't. But who could blame him. After all, the mess the child had made upstairs was big. It covered almost every wall in that bathroom.
Of course, big messes happen when you swing a child by its feet against a wall. They happen when you keep swinging it, screaming with madness, anger, and frustration, its blood spraying almost every surface. They happen when it is crushed under your feet, its organs becoming unrecognizable with every stomp. They happen when it is finally thrown into the tub, the water turning into a muddy red. Big messes happen, but they can also be cleaned up.
She remembered her mother's words and sighed again.
She began to walk up the stairs.

Description
PARENTING

The child had made a spectacle of a mess, which was the reason the she was out shopping for cleaning supplies. She pushed her cart through the aisles of the store, looking for a favorable brand of detergent. She wasn't going to buy a lot of items, but she preferred pushing the carts than having to hang the basket on her arm. The child had been left home alone, although she had been against the idea at first. Besides, she couldn't have brought the child in the state that it was in, even if she had left it in the car. And the mess had to be cleaned quickly, before her husband got home.
She sighed as she picked up a new detergent that promised a spotless shine guaranteed! She put two of these in her cart and proceeded further down the aisle. She wasn't sure if she had enough sponges back at the house to clean that mess; better go get some. As she turned into the next aisle, she remembered her mother's words spoken to her while she had lain in the hospital bed after she'd given birth to the child.
The nurse had taken the child away to be checked for any conditions—the routine examinations. Her mother had stood by her side during the delivery and she stood by her now, smiling at her daughter and holding her hand.
"You're a mother now," she had said.
"You will understand what it is to be a parent. There will be times of frustration, but you will have to pull through. I am proud of you."
The first few weeks had been torturous. She could find no appeasement to end the child's constant crying. Through it all, she remembered her mother's words.
As she pushed the cart to the cashier, she stopped to pick up a pack of black garbage bags. Definitely needed to be extra hefty. She paid the girl at the register and took her purchased items to her car. She had to get back quickly; she didn't want to leave the child alone too long. As she began to drive in the direction of her home, she hoped no one had discovered the mess. They couldn't, not unless someone broke in and went into the upstairs bathroom. She decided that she was being slightly paranoid and pushed the thought out of her head. All she would have to do was get the mess cleaned up and there would be no problems.
She stopped at an intersection to let a young couple with a stroller cross the street. The child in the stroller looked the same age as her own. She had a violent thought of pressing the acceleration pedal and running over the family, the car bumping over their bodies. It would be so easy, causing no effort on her part.
She gripped the steering wheel tightly. Why had she thought that?
The honk of a car behind her pulled her back from her thoughts. The family was already walking away on the other side of the sidewalk. She drove the few blocks that remained to her home and parked the car in the garage. She didn't get out immediately. She sat in the car, still gripping the steering wheel. The watch on her wrist read 1:30. Her husband wouldn't be home for another hour. It would be enough time to get the mess upstairs cleaned up.
The first thing she noticed as she entered the kitchen was the quiet.
"No more crying," she thought, and smiled.
She put the items she had bought on the countertop and hung up her jacket in the hallway closet. She went into her bedroom to change into some old clothes. She found some worn out sweat pants and an old shirt that once said something on the front but was now too faded to read. She tied her hair up into a bun; no sense of making herself more dirty than needed.
She went back into the kitchen and got the sponges, detergents, and garbage bags. She was about to go upstairs when she stopped at the foot of the stairs. Looking up, she could see the door to the bathroom—the bathroom where the mess had been made. She sighed, knowing that her task would be tedious. She could leave no spot, no sign that would suggest that the mess had ever been there. The mess wouldn't have been as big if she hadn't been so angry, so furious. All she had been doing was giving the child a bath, simply washing it, when it had begun to cry.
She looked down at the items in her hands, knowing that she had to get started, that her husband would be home soon. And he would not stand for that mess, no siree he wouldn't. But who could blame him. After all, the mess the child had made upstairs was big. It covered almost every wall in that bathroom.
Of course, big messes happen when you swing a child by its feet against a wall. They happen when you keep swinging it, screaming with madness, anger, and frustration, its blood spraying almost every surface. They happen when it is crushed under your feet, its organs becoming unrecognizable with every stomp. They happen when it is finally thrown into the tub, the water turning into a muddy red. Big messes happen, but they can also be cleaned up.
She remembered her mother's words and sighed again.
She began to walk up the stairs.