Real Life

Real Life cover Nov 19 2016.jpg

Real Life

A Mrs. Evans story

By avenger-nerd-mom

Sometimes things are just a bit too real around the Evans’ household…

Warnings: Language, Adult Situations, Real Life

Word count: 1558

From the blackness he calls out to you.  “Is there something wrong?” he asks, his voice gravelly and gruff from sleep.

You freeze on the spot.  You were trying so hard not to wake him up, fumbling around in the dark room.  An image of the mess left in the kitchen late last night, including the melted ice cream after the soccer game and his rushed trip from the airport to the ballfield flashes through your mind.  “It’s just been a long week.  Go back to sleep; you gotta catch up on time zones.”

You bend to grab the pile of dirty clothes from the floor and exit the room, nearly tripping over the dog as he rushes into the room.  You cringe at the sound of his clanging tags as he jumps up on the bed and Chris fusses for him to get down.  Closing the door behind you, you know damn well that dog is still in the bed.  You ball your hands in a fist, adding ‘wash bed sheets’ to the list of things to do today.  Dammit, he listens worse than the boys do…  ‘No dogs in the beds.’  How is that a difficult thing; it’s been a house rule since you began dating?

You tap on the door of the oldest boy, and grin when he opens it with a warm smile.  “Hey, bud.  Daddy’s really tired and won’t be any help this morning.  I’m gonna start this laundry and be right down.  Can you get the milk poured in your cereal and fix cinnamon toast for your brother?”

He nods in agreement, picking up his soccer shoes and bag he left in the hallway the night before.  He starts to walk away but turns back and wraps his little arms around your waist, mumbling his thanks and morning greetings. Bending to kiss the top of his little blonde head you are so filled with love.

This.  This is why we don’t have nannies.  This is why the maid only comes once a week.  You repeat it like a mantra just to get through the morning.

You want to scream when you reach the upstairs laundry room.  His suitcase exploded.  Dirty clothes everywhere, and from the smell, most of them are covered with spilled shampoo.  The suits that need to be professionally laundered are wadded up in a ball.  Kicking things out of the way, you simply drop the items in your arms.  Raising your eyebrows, you realize it’s not worth any arguments or complaining now.  You reach over and push ‘start.’  The towels can fluff for another 20 minutes while you get the boys ready for school.  Fortunately it’s not your turn to drive carpool this week to day-camp.

At the top of the steps, for a split second you consider sliding down the bannister just to reawaken joy.  But it’s not really an option…  Knowing your luck, you’d fall and bust your head open and there isn’t time for an emergency room visit.  Or a damn tabloid story hinting things aren’t ‘good’ at home anymore for the Evans’s… That thought actually makes you laugh out loud, how wrong paps get stories, and you have a little bounce as you walk down the steps.

It’s not that it’s not good… Sometimes it’s just too real.

Both boys are eating breakfast together, talking about the new kid on their team, sharing stories from last night’s practice.  Sitting at the table with them, you sip on your ice water and a calm fills you.  They both look so much like their father…

The buzz on your phone alerts you that their ride is coming up the drive.  “Grab your bags boys!  Your ride is here.”  The littlest stumbles from his seat and you pick him up, carrying him to the door and covering his sweet face with kisses while he giggles and squeals.

“Wuv you, Moms.”  he calls over his shoulder as he runs to the car, climbing into his seat.  Fighting back tears you wave as one of the older kids in the SUV buckles him in.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to enter the house, picking up the bag of discarded water bottles from last night’s ball game.  Closing the door softly, you lean back against the cold metal, shaking your head at the pile of shoes and coats in the foyer.  Pulling it together, you close your eyes and say a silent prayer.  The list: laundry, obviously, cleaning the breakfast mess and last night’s snack, reorganizing the pantry for groceries tomorrow, bathrooms… sheets.  Dammit, the sheets.

The smell of bacon drifts down the hallway.  Your stomach flips as you walk down the hall to the kitchen.  The boys’ dishes are stacked on the counter, next to a pile of opened mail.  The mess from last night is placed in the waiting dishwasher.

And the sight at the stove is the most beautiful thing you’ve seen in two weeks.  “Damn, you’re sinful,” you whisper.

He turns to smile, his plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips and your eyes are drawn to his Adonis and the dark dusting of hair across his chest.  The muscles in his arms flex under your watchful eyes, although you can tell it’s not something he’s doing on purpose.  It’s just his body’s natural movement.
“Before you say anything, I’m really sorry about the mess.  That wasn’t fair to do to you, and I’ll take care of it,” he says, reaching back around to turn off the stove and plate up the bacon.

You can’t hold your laughter in.  “Oh, fuck, babe.  I’ve heard that.  Do you have any-”

“Honey. Stop.  I didn’t say I would do it; I said I’ll take care of it.” His tone of voice carries his irritation.  “I called Anita.  She’ll be here in 30 minutes and will take care of everything,” he chuckles.  “Laundry, even the sheets- I already stripped the bed.  She’ll clean it all- bathrooms, dust, vacuum.  You name it; what needs to be done?” He opens the drawer for silverware, closing it with a bump of his hip as he gracefully moves across the kitchen to you.  “Groceries? While you shower, I’ll click the app and everything will be here tomorrow afternoon and then-”

“Shower? Why do I need a shower? I already had one,” you tell him, taking the plate from his hand and sitting it on the table in front of you.

Grabbing the tabasco sauce for his eggs from the fridge, he sits down at the table next to you.  He squints for a minute and takes a drink of his juice, like he’s thinking what to say, but still says the dumb thing anyway.  “Really? You look like shit, babe.  I’m sorry.  But you just look-”

“I look- What? Tired? Overwhelmed? Bored?” you can’t even hide the bitterness in your voice.

“Yea, all of it. Babe, what’s wrong?  You don’t have to be supermom; you can go back to work, we can hire Anita full time, we can get a nanny.  What do you want?”  His fork rattles against the plate.  “Tell me what you want me to do; I’ll do it.  You know you always come first.”

Pushing your plate away, you cover your mouth with your first.  Willing yourself not to say the thing you most need to say.   You planned to wait, but this just seems like a perfect opening.  “I need you.  I need you to be home more.  They’re active little boys and I just can’t keep doing it alone.  Chris, I-”

“Done.  I can do that.  I do have obligations for about three more weeks, but I can call Josh later. We can rearrange my schedule; you and the kids can come stay with me in New York; go stay with your parents; go stay with my mom.  You know, Ma would-”

You push the plate even further away; the smell is killing you and you are trying to hold it together.  “Chris, babe, I’m pregnant.  We’re pregnant.” You chuckle.  “I am tired, I do look like shit, and you have got to get these eggs away from me.”

His face lights up brighter than a Christmas tree and tears well in his eyes.  Standing up, he grabs the plate, setting it on the floor for the dog to destroy the rank evidence.  He kisses the top of your lovely head before dropping to his knees.  Rubbing your belly, he leans in and covers it with kisses.  Placing his hands solidly on your stomach, he cups them and speaks loud and clear, his lips brushing against the soft cotton t-shirt.  “Hello, little baby in there!”

He laughs, wiping away his tears of happiness.  He looks up to you and winks before resuming his first chat with the littlest Evans. “You’re really lucky, cuz you’ve got the most amazing mom and she won’t yell when you leave the laundry on the floor…” You reach down and tug his silky hair, shorter for the project he’s been finishing, caressing the back of his head.  “Your big brothers will teach you all about soccer, and your dad, well he’s kind of a dumb ass, but not so bad.”

“Not so bad at all,” you whisper as he raises up on his knees, pulling you in for a gentle kiss.

Copyright © 2016 avenger-nerd-mom.  All rights reserved. Intellectual property of avenger-nerd-mom

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