The Bucket

Have I cried today? Who knows. I’m both unsure and can’t remember. There are dishes in the sink and a stain on the wall. Sometimes, when my head tips forward my eyes begin to tingle, and when I wipe them with the back of my hand it comes away wet. 

I hope the stain isn’t blood.

Most of the time, the tears aren’t mine, they’re my childrens’. They overflow from the bucket that lingers above my head, the one meant to collect all of their tears and keep me somewhat dry and sheltered throughout the day. But the bucket is only so big, and my children are exceptional criers. The 4-year old is a freckled car alarm that twists her face and clenches her fists when she cries. The 3 year old is a cartoon kitten with flooded anime eyes. The baby is a lawless hyena.

“Bye bye Dada!” We all call from the second floor window as my husband makes the Monday through Friday walk to his car. “Have fun at work, Dada!”

“Can I call Grandma?” asks the car alarm. 

“It’s 8:14 in the morning and Grandma is sleeping,” I say. “Would you like some pancakes?” 

She collapes into a puddle. 

“Yes I DO want pancakes!” screams the cartoon. 

“That’s what I said,” I tell her, but it’s too late and now I have two puddles. The pancakes take years to cook. The hyena needs a new diaper. The bucket sloshes. 

One time, when the cartoon was around 2 years old, she sat at the kitchen table and drank a cup of milk. When she was done, she announced she no longer wanted to hold the empty cup. I told her to set the cup on the table, which was directly in front of her, barely an inch from her hand, but she couldn’t do it. I told her to try. She began to scream. I told her to set the cup down. She transformed into a horned demon. 

Maybe the stain is chocolate? 

When my husband comes home from work I place my bucket on the table. I scoop the tears into separate containers and recite their origin stories. “These are from this morning when I couldn’t find the flower fork,” I say. “And these are from the time I gave the baby the left boob instead of the right. The rest are from nap time.”

Some days he comes home to find me soaked through, my hair wet and clinging to my face. “Did you know a horned demon produces over 1,000 tears per second?” I tell him. “Sometimes even more if their sister won’t give up the yellow shark. Did you know that?” 

He shakes his head. He did not know that. 

On those days, there’s not much that can be done. We’ll toss some graham crackers in whatever room our children have claimed for their own and hope they are pleased with our offerings. Then I’ll blather on about yellow sharks and pancakes and puddles and he’ll wrap his arms around me and ask how he can make it better, because my husband also has a bucket, but one that fills when I cry. 

I don’t know who has a bucket for him. 

But some days he comes home and there are ballerina dances and front yard baseball games and we watch thunderstorms through the living room window. The car alarm shows him a picture she painted before lunch and I can’t take my eyes away from the glow of her red hair in the setting sunbeams. The cartoon kitten sings him a song and none of it makes any sense but the word “Mama” is definitely in the chorus. The little hyena nuzzles into my neck and smells strangely like my son. 

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and it comes away wet, but just barely. Where did I put my bucket? I’m both unsure and can’t remember. 

At night, after bathtime bubbles and blueberries-frozen, I empty my head into a computer keyboard. There is a dog on the couch and a cat at my feet and down the stairs drift the faint remnants of a story about dragons.

My husband does the dishes. He washes the stain off the wall. 

He tells me it was probably coffee. 

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