Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue
Nonfiction by Crystal McQueen
It’s been a long week with snow and ice imprisoning families in their homes. My teenagers lie abed as I trudge down the stairs on my lunch break. They should be the ones to shovel the snow, but I don’t wake them. I let them sleep.
Outside, the air is crisp against my face, and my breath puffs like tiny clouds. Basking in the joy of closed schools, half a dozen children take advantage of the slick street with their sleds. My kids haven’t used their sleds in years. They sit in the garage, gathering dust, but I don’t have the heart to give them away.
I smile at the little faces from behind my bundled layers, but they do not see me. Shrieks and laughter serenade me as I work. Ice has hardened beneath the powdery snow and sweat pours down my back long before the top layer of snow is cleared from my porch. I have to stop to stretch my back.
Other mothers sip their coffees, overseeing the raucous play as they chat and giggle. Envy tugs at me. Their kids are still young, and most of them are stay-at-home moms while I still have half a day of remote work left for me after I clear these steps. If I can clear these steps. The ice seems determined to thwart me.
My kids have to work tomorrow. If it isn’t done now, it will be waiting for me when it’s getting dark. Leaving the driveway under a sheet of ice isn’t an option. My kids won’t call off work. They don’t even like to request time off to do things they enjoy like vacations, parties and dates. I like that. It shows reliability, responsibility. Yet, here I am, shoveling while they sleep. The irony is not lost on me.
My neighbor, a firefighter, also chips at the ice on his driveway. He probably needs to work tomorrow too. The rest of the street remains dormant, willing to wait out the weather.
The firefighter’s wife, a mother of a girl and twin boys, calls to me.
“Hey, want to hear a funny story?”
I should get back to work. I need a shower, but I don’t want to be rude.
“Sure.”
“Is that your office up there?” She points to a second-story window facing her home. The children have stopped their play to listen, already giggling.
I frown and wonder where this is going. “Yes, it is.”
“Last night, I was giving the boys a bath, and my kid saw you through the window. He said, ‘Mom, look who’s Googling and drinking wine!’”
The kids burst into fits of laughter. The other moms smile at me with knowing nods.
I play along and give them a chuckle, even though I’m embarrassed. Somehow, a six- year-old boy caught a glimpse of me in a writing workshop, a search for who I might become in the next stage of my life, with a rare glass of wine. I seldom drink. The wine has to be really sweet, and the extra calories aren’t worth it.
I explain none of this as the moms cluster back in their circle, and the kids resume their play, grins still stretched across their rosy faces. Back inside, as I shed sweaty, snow-covered clothes in a pile by the door, I wonder if drinking and shopping online is what those kids think the strange lady-who-doesn’t-hang-out-with-their-moms does all day.
From my office window, I see the little ones surrender to the cold, one-by-one tromping back inside to the warmth of their homes until all that remains are the impressions of sled paths and tiny feet.
Hours later, my boys are well-rested and dressed. Even with their young, strong arms, we spend hours de-icing the driveway, scraping and shoveling until we feel like our backs might break. We are alone, toiling in the fading light, our clothes soaked in sweat.
We get takeout for dinner.
A week passes, and the soreness fades. I spend the day purging the papers in my office. For hours, I shred stacks of papers. Useless medical bills and bank statements, packets of elementary school report cards and quarterly attendance awards. Some go back two decades. My boys each peek into my office, their curiosity drawing them in. For a while, they sit on the floor next to me, folding their long legs into cross-cross-apple-sauce, as I work.
I treasure the time they choose to be with me and discuss their day with their deep baritone voices that are new and unfamiliar, but that I would recognize anywhere. This occurs less and less as the years pass. I try not to think about when they won’t be home anymore, but the thoughts press in anyway. It will happen gradually as if it might escape my notice. No more walks across the hall. Phone calls with occasional visits from college. Then, just birthdays and Christmases. Each passing day drawing them further into their own person. Into their own life. And, I will be there, encouraging them, supporting them where I can. But I won’t be there, all day, every day, watching, guiding, protecting. That won’t be my job anymore.
It is nearly dark when I cart three garbage bags filled with paper shavings across the lawn and into the trash barrel, and I wonder if the neighborhood children see this. I hope they do. Give their little voices something else to talk about. Maybe they will think I am a master criminal or a super spy. Let them imagine a more interesting grown-up life than late night intoxicated shopping. Let them enjoy crafting stories about mysterious adults while they are still safe in their little beds, and their moms watch over them.
Crystal McQueen lives in Northern Kentucky with her husband and two teenaged boys. Crystal attends EKU’s Bluegrass Writer’s Studio, pursuing her MFA and has work in The Writing Disorder and borrowed solace. A passion for adventure and love for her family acts as her inspiration. For more information, visit crystalmcqueen.com.
