Daughters of the Dirt / Sarah Higdon

I tell myself I will not do it again which is all I can do at this point; that and call my mom. My mom who of course has surely howled a time or two in the raising of her own nine children, but not with that voice I hear in my own head. She weeps a little, and laughs, too, when I tell her -- not at my fall from motherly grace, which she knows is an impossible stance to ever maintain, but at the memory of her own time. Four kids under five and she shrieked so hard it was a physical act; her throat hurt and her head and her heart and all she could do when it was over was knock on the neighbor’s door. She told the neighbor of her distress and asked to borrow a dollar. The women then, including on that block where I grew up, they were all home with little kids and no cars and they borrowed things: quarters, dollars, ears and cups of sugar, too. And they were all quick to lend. So she borrowed the dollar and she loaded the kids in the stroller, a big old-fashioned pram kind of thing -- old enough to be called a perambulator -- and she walked downtown to buy ice cream with her borrowed money. The walk cooled her heels and the ice cream soothed her heart and the treat to the kids was her mea culpa and she promised to never yell like that again. She laughs a little when she says never because maybe never is a bit of a stretch when raising nine kids but almost never is the truth.

..........................................................................