You Can Go Home Again, But Why?

I don’t like coming home from work anymore.

Used to be after a long day and horrific commute, I’d arrive home, and home was the reason to have gone through the miserable soul-killing day. I’d drive up to my sweet lit up house, walk in the door and my son would cry out joyously, “Mommy’s home!” He would trip all over himself racing to me from the den, shining face filled with joy and aching for the chance to throw his arms around me and welcome me back. The dogs would leap up and down around us, throwing themselves against me and then diving onto the floor slobbering and licking and crying with sheer happiness. It was, (I thought privately), an absolutely appropriate greeting for the mother. Giver of life, filler of dog bowls.

Things have calmed down just a tad in the past few years. For example, no one really bothers to turn on the porch light for me anymore. If I arrive home after dark, I stumble my way up the steps grasping my key and scratching it first all over the paint on the door and eventually into the lock. Once in, I can sometimes catch a dog looking up for a moment, and then bored out of his mind, dropping back to sleep.

I put down my stuff and walk into the den. Through the sliding glass door I see our housekeeper in the back yard, no doubt finishing up the same cell phone call I left her on this morning. My son lies on the couch, ruling the universe with a plastic controller and two double-A batteries. I stroke his head.

“Hi honey. How was your day?”
He doesn’t look up.
“The printer doesn’t work so I can’t finish my homework.”
“I can fix that. Are you sure you had paper in the …”
“When I turn on my shower it pours water all over the bathroom.”
“Did you close the shower door?”
No answer.
“Did you mop it up?”
No answer.
And then because I just can’t help myself…
“Did you actually take a shower?”
Silence. I start upstairs to look at the damage, when I hear:

“I have to wear orange tomorrow.” I stop.
“All orange or just some orange?
The question clearly annoys him. I can tell because he shoots his friend August. As August drops little “F” bombs through the X-Box headset, there is a low moan from the other dog who I see for the first time has an eye that is crusty and red and dripping some kind of horrible goo.
“Hey,” I say, “did anyone notice that Spike’s eye is…”
“The basketball hoop fell into the garage light and there is glass all over the driveway.”
“Did you step in it?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot.
“…And someone from the city called. You have to pay two hundred and fifty dollars if your sprinklers don’t stop spraying the sidewalk by tomorrow.”
“Who asked them to monitor the sprinklers? And how do these people…”
“I have a stomach ache.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know.
“Does it feel like gas or cramps?”
“I don’t know.”

The housekeeper enters from the back yard.
“He don’t want to eat yet.”
“Well,” I say, “It’s almost 8:30, maybe you should have…”
My son has at last found a reason to turn his head slightly toward me.
“I’m hungry now.”
“I thought you had a stomach ache.”
“I’m hungry now.
I turn to the housekeeper. “He’s hungry now.”
“I gotta go.”
“Right. Of course. I’ll feed him.”
“Good.”
The housekeeper picks up her bag.
“Thank you.” I say.
“You’re welcome,” she replies, getting almost totally out the door, “Don’t use the toilet in your room.”
“Why not?”
She laughs. “I gotta go.”

Rae.