I woke up abruptly. There was no transition between sleep and wakefulness. I did not, as usually, experience that slow, gradual ascending from the deep darkness of drowsiness into the full daylight. An explosion of blaze splashed over me, washing off the slumber, sobering me instantly. It must be late. What's the time?
I get up quickly, not stopping to find the slippers. The kitchen clock tells me it is not six yet. Oh, good. The day outside is fully awake and gloriously brilliant.
Back in the bedroom, for a second, I feel like going back to bed. Warm and crumpled, it is so inviting. But, a tiny, little noiseless stir from the crib is alerting me. I lean over the golden, curly head of my sixteen-month-old daughter, just awakening. "Mommy buy Maya a kitty-cat," she is murmuring. Then, a bit louder, and demanding: "Maya potty." I run to bring her potty, then lift her warm, dreamy little body onto it. Too late.
As usually, it is too late. She has asked for the potty "post actem." Too sleepy to call me on time. With her little plump body radiating warmth and drowsiness, she leans heavily upon me, smelling of a dream world of infancy, remote and downy. I wrap her in the pink, fuzzy blanket with a puppy, Tramp, embroidered in one corner. She wakes one step further, and starts tracing the puppy's contours with her little finger. "Doggie. Doggie. Maya's doggie." Still dreamy, she is occupied with talking to her dog, while I go to the kitchen to warm some milk.
Instantly, I rush back, remembering that she may get up and spill the pot. But, she is oblivious, sitting on it, still talking to the friendly dog on her blanket. Then, she notices her calico cat, and abandons the dog. She strokes and brushes the cat tenderly, against her cheek, talking to it sweetly. Meanwhile, I am putting tiny white socks on her chubby feet with little, swollen-like toes and miniature nails. Then, her little red shoes. She loves them! With her shoes on, she is ready to start the day. Now, she is running around, looking for her Baka (Grandma), on the way touching everything. She especially loves the books: "Bookies, bookies, mom's bookies."
Meanwhile, I am quickly slipping out of the nightgown, getting dressed.
"Mom has a navel," announces Maya solemnly. Nothing ever escapes her quick eyes.
I am rushing to the bathroom, she is following. If I don't let her in, she will scream. Finishing her glass of milk with great gusto, she gulps the last drop with a strange, absorbed yet absent look that always puzzles me. As if not quite here, not with me, not quite mine anymore. That same look I have seen many times on her father's face, at times of intense pleasure, and it almost scared me. I was with him, yet alone, saddened that we were not together in pleasure, if we agreed on being together "for better for worse, for richer for poorer."
I am giving Maya the rest of her breakfast, acknowledging her growing restlessness. She always senses my anxiety. How does it transmit to her? She knows when I am mentally getting ready to leave, even before I do anything about it. We are still tied by the umbilical cord.
I try to divert her attention to the toys, and then leave the room, while I hear Baka gently talking to her. I slip into my shoes, snatch the handbag, and softly close the door behind me. The next moment I am already outside, busily avoiding the bumps on the still unfinished pavement.
I like the suburb where we have just moved: nice family homes with large yards, people who regularly water their flowers and enjoy sitting outside in the late summer evenings, women talking to each other over the fence, everybody knowing all the neighbors.
Fortunately, it is also close to the bus stop.
I might be late today, though. The bus is not coming. A line is quickly forming: teenagers with pimply faces and elaborate hairstyles, chewing the gum and chatting loudly; women with short, practical haircuts, nervously checking the time; men reading the newspapers and discussing the politics and the sports.
The bus, already full, finally approaches, moaning and squeaking, swollen like a pregnant woman. Like every morning, it is passing by the same shops with windows full of tragically crucified pajamas and bored mannequins silently advertising oversized clothes hanging pathetically on their perfectly slim, lifeless bodies:" Buy it and look like me!"
Although early, the same elderly invalid is already standing on his corner of the Slavia Square with the scales. I wonder if anyone is ever getting weighed on it, especially in the early morning rush.
The street florists are chirping noisily in front of the Cafe London: peasant girls from the neighboring villages with bright, starched scarves on their heads, their ruddy faces aglow and smiling, so different from our sallow, tense "urban" faces.
I am reaching my office just in time. Many others are pouring in: Lula, walking slowly and with dignity, not because of her over-sized body, but because she does not believe in rush, a matronly woman, symbol of stability. Behind her, all flustered, nervously checking her watch, arrives Lucia, always worried about time and always late. Mira comes next, hopping on her high heels like a petite bird, her hair lifted in an elaborate, fluffy, nest-like chignon. She is non-chalante about work and careless about time.
Like every morning, I am opening my desk and starting to work. The day, like any other day, stretches endlessly. Work. Work. Work.
Pouring through the large windows, the warm autumn sun enters all my pores, making me heavy and languid. I am craving to be outside, to lie in the fresh, tall grass and think of nothing.
Finally, a shrill bell cuts the silence. The end of the workday.
We all rush outside, some to their cars, others to catch the first bus. In the little shop, by the bus stop, I hurriedly get some bread, milk, fruit and magazines. On the bus, too tired to talk, I dully stare in front of me, unable to make an effort to apologize for stepping on someone's feet, or agree with the old lady complaining about the bus driver's jerky driving.
Finally, I rush out of the bus, cross the street with a small park, pass by the daycare center, and arrive home greeted by the delighted screams of my little daughter. Baka says, she senses my coming before she can hear or see me. Her eyes, two flaming torches, are like fireworks of love and joy. I wash my hands and quickly embrace her warm, firm body. My child!
Again that same scent of the child-world, fresh and innocent: her hair fragrant like the wild flowers, her breath like the delicate chamomile. How good it feels to come home to her!
Now that I am here, she abandons Baka like an old doll, and I must change her clothes, take her for a walk, play with her toys. Then, I read to her: about the Little Prince and his favorite rose-friend on a tiny, far-away planet.
Soon, the sun is down and the evening approaches. I am closing the drapes, and turning the lights on. After giving Maya a bath, I put her to bed. She is murmuring, half asleep, and I am already fixing the supper, doing her laundry, ironing my husband's shirts.
Midnight. While opening the windows to get some fresh air, I briefly acknowledge the beauty of the twinkling stars on the velvety skies, then, with a sigh of relief, collapse into the bed. It seems, my each muscle is crying from pain, while invisible spirals emanate from my slowly relaxing body. Oh, how good it is to be in bed. This is, finally, my time. But, even then, through my mind, dulled by exhaustion, thoughts of tomorrow's chores flash: I must mail my manuscript first thing in the morning, I need to get Jozo's suits from the cleaner's.
A-a-ah. How good it is to be in bed. To rest. And I am already tumbling down the deep warm abysses of sleep. Till the next day.