A Penny Saved
The children and I are leaving to Phoenix at midnight. It is a balmy evening as I pack a few last things. Snow is beginning to fade into spring inlets where marshes grow. I often walk down the winding path towards our lake, just to make sure. “Yep, the water is flowing and little seedlings are sprouting in towards water rushing.” On these edacious meanderings outside, I search hopingly to find the first signs of life. Never mind that spring has already been ensued with our spring break trip already planned. I am more concerned with Minnesota sprout lings and their vague appearances in my driveway.
Divorce is not martyrdom in case anyone is wondering. It is a continuation of things; of life. I conquer days with as much strength and happiness as I ever did; never-ending devices of a happy life. If I stopped breathing I may never notice, I seem to run these days catching up to a predestination only the Lord knows. He is leading me there I insist. If it were up to me I might become lost in the daily business of life; never noticing His hand in it. I keep my eyes peeled awaiting some serendipitous moment of surrender to a new life. All the while remaining enthralled with mine. Of the four children that he entrusts me with, I know I will be missing Abigail the most. I pack a worn out teddy bear in her carry-on bag; she wouldn’t want to be without him for a minute. I pause, momentarily, daydreaming. I think about how I will stuff each child in my bed when we get back home. Just so we can be as close as possible all at once. Christian, my oldest, may have to lay across the bottom of the bed, but at least all limbs and heads and bodies will be connected. I feel assurance that we will make up for time lost; moments lost. Each one seems forever to me; this happens to Mom’s who have kids. For now it is back to suitcases that are missing items; the children often forget, especially the little ones. I put in spare toothbrushes and extra underwear and swimsuits and notes that say, “I love you.”
I will be seeing my Dad while the kids are visiting their Dad in Tucson. All four of them at once. I can only imagine the shock on his face as he tends to them one by one. He sees them routinely, but only for a few weeks at a time. The evidence from a calamitous trip involves a crying child who forgot her new book and another that runs to me in silence when he drops them off. They do love their Dad and he is a good Dad; it is just not the same I suppose without Mom. It will take Katie, my third child, a few more days after to get back to her chipper self. It isn’t that they and I do not enjoy these trips; I find it a healthy paradox at times. I can’t help but notice their appreciation for me once they return home again. I envy it; each one asking me what they can help me with. In a few weeks these feelings will fade; the return home is always the climax. I think about my Dad and how he would have liked to see the kids in Phoenix, he and my Mom will have to see them next time. This trip wasn’t long enough. My family is from this area; I went to Minnesota because my grandparents were there. And it gave me some distance to re-cooperate for a while.
I think about my visit with my Dad and how that will go. He was always wary about my having so many children so young. He wouldn’t have minded so much if I had at least finished my education, having retired from teaching at NAU in Flagstaff. He just couldn’t understand why I had to marry at nineteen to my high school sweetheart. He recommended waiting and gave me the, “wait until you finish your education talk..” Then after marriage I decided to drop out of college. This is probably what my Dad was anticipating. My new husband and I actually planned out having our first child. Some kids my age were astounded when they found out they were pregnant. Not me; it was no accident. This is because I wanted to get started on having ten kids. Yes, ten kids. I had to tell my Dad this so he would understand. I remember him appearing flabbergasted by my statements,
“But I love kids,” I had said.
“You need to say in school. What if something happens?” He said.
“What better way to serve the Lord than this?” I said.
I Expected him to feel proud, he wasn’t. I can remember being able to read his mind this particular day, “what the heck is she thinking. She is going to get herself in trouble. Those kids are too young.” My ex was in on our plans, he came from a large family; it was customary. He was going to school, he promised to take care of me. I knew it would be okay. Now, after the divorce shock has settled in, my Dad is feeling better about my decisions. When I told him I was going back to school he sighed wearily, “I am so glad you are going to finish.” He also loves all four of my children and how I take care of them. He is much less worried as we continue to preserve, despite the fact that the task is ludicrous; raising four kids on my own and going to school full time. Then again so was my original plan, I would only be on my sixth child by now.
My children are used to going to bed at 8:30. I devised this plan a long time ago, when I was still married. Thankfully I have a few book readers that don’t mind even though their ages are from 7-14 in range. This is why I am finishing packing and they are sitting in their pajamas watching TV. They are used to going to bed early. My sister will be here in an hour to take us to the airport to catch our mid-night flight. Someone who doesn’t understand responsibility as much booked the flights because they were cheaper at this time; thankfully my kids adjust to sleeping conditions. I hope they will at least fall asleep halfway into the trip.
In my last minute preparations, I give the house a quick clean up. I contracted possible OCD, I am not sure. I also have learned to become immune to the fact that my home will never be in perfect order. So I feel conflicted; do you have OCD if you can manage with less clean, but inside it really bothers you endlessly? If so, I have it. One thing I cannot adjust to is leaving the house unkempt upon returning from a trip. It is just too much to worry about while I am away. After cleaning every room of the house after a long and busy day I finalize by sweeping the kitchen and plan on a good mop. This is when I find a penny lying on the floor.
I look at the penny lying in the dust pan. It is entrenched in dust from freshly opening windows waiting for spring air to breeze in. There are also a few cheerios. I think to myself, “If I have to go upstairs one more time tonight, I will be done.” I envision my wallet in my purse next to my suitcase. I set them there ready to be picked up on our final run. I haven’t slept much this week. My kid’s spring break is exactly one week after mine. I insist on flying them to Arizona; that means doubling up on homework. And of course most of my classes have mid-terms due this week. This is why I am tired, not just going on a trip. The timing is a bit off.
Standing in the kitchen I realize I have contemplated penny throwing once before. I am eight years old, round about. I am in my bedroom cleaning, as my mother asked me to. I wonder about throwing a penny in my trash can. I could find my piggy bank, but it is in the kitchen. I never considered myself lazy before, but perhaps I was at this moment. It is just a penny, just a measly old penny. No one can even use pennies. What are pennies for? I already discovered that it would take at least 100 pennies to even get a candy bar. I decide I don’t like pennies much. I am about to toss it and I realize it is a federal offense to throw a penny. I imagine a landfill where my poor penny lies, mangled in sheets of plastic excess. The guilt overthrows all reason; I can’t do it. I run to my mom to fetch a glass filled with pennies my family contributes to.
Reluctantly, I rehearse these feelings all over again. I haven’t changed much on the subject. As I proceed to the trash can I give it a final look, “wait, I can’t do that.” I am costing tax payers money. When are they going to get rid of pennies anyway? Are they around for sheer laziness? I mean how hard would it be to transfer the currency over? I feel like in some small way I am sinning against America. Perhaps it would offset American dollars if we all treated pennies this way. I actually do not believe we should still be using pennies. I will save that argument for another hour. I think of my long day and week and take it out on the penny, mercifully. “Actually, you know what? I am going to throw you away. And you can just deal with it.” The penny becomes my human moment; the point where I could take no more. I feel this is the refuge for an overly responsible woman. I’ve noticed these rebellions lately; however meek and mild, they definitely exist. Call them guilty passions; no I do not plan on throwing pennies away every chance I get. It simply wouldn’t be as fun anyway, if it became a habit. Plus, I do feel guilty about it.
It isn’t that I was satisfied with this neglect of the penny, it was that I was tired. No one called from the stairs to say, “You are doing too much dear. Why don’t you let those dishes stay in the sink? I’ll wash them.” Not even a, “thank you for keeping the house clean and packing the kids today.” I cannot say that my marriage was necessarily quarrelsome; although it was in the final hour. For the most part my ex and I coincided in our own spheres. He had his responsibilities and I had mine. I was responsible for the children, the house, the clutter, the groceries and entertaining myself and the kids. He did everything else. He even inserted kind phrases when things were better like, “why don’t you rest, I will do those dishes.” This happened infrequently, but at least it happened. If you are inquiring, I do not regret my marriage, hence my beautiful kids. I do regret people not knowing they have these dark sides that take over; one should be every so aware of their penny moments and how they are doing.
Frankly, my ex had what you would call a mid-life crisis at age 30. He was juggling for a long time; unable to get rid of pennies. Eventually they added up and became quite costly. Everything came to a cataclysmic halt; it was a sudden event. First he was home every night and then he vanished. Slowly he came back, at least for the kids. This is why I allow myself rebellions, or small inconveniences for society. This may be what the penny represented; my payment feeling overdue for the luxury this world will inhibit when I turn out four sweetly impressed children who still hang pictures of Jesus over their beds and pray kneeling as a family each night. “You don’t deserve us,” I tell the penny, “but you will have us anyway.” The world is such an off-kilter place. You need a little of it, like anti-venom to much larger catastrophes such as always staying inside. It wouldn’t be good to lose sight of all the wonderment that can be afforded, and yet it is in the home where children kneel and talk of things so sweetly and share their awkward dreams. You would be amazed what secrets a mother keeps.
I think back over the day; blaming it for my tired feet. It started with going to bed at 1 a.m. the night previous. For Photography class we had a portfolio due. I spent the night in another rebellion; I snuck my oldest child on campus. I am not sure if this is an offense or not? Regardless, I pretended it was something foreboding. I felt scrupulous. I am not even sure if people realize how old I am or not. I often blend in; a pre-fabricated wish. If you would went back to school, would you want to be noticed? I would not. I would rather remain as quiet as can be and not have to share my story. No one believes me when I tell them I have four kids. I decided to give way to my menagerie and introduce Christian to a few of the students that came in that night. I remembered all the times my Dad took my sister and I to his campus. Usually on the weekends, when students were away. We played teacher in the classrooms and wrote on the chalkboards. My Dad took some extra time to prepare assignments and projects. Bringing Christian made me feel like I was giving way to an inheritance; the importance of campus life. We spent four hours unwinding film from canisters, dipping them in photo fix, enlarging negatives and dipping photo paper in developer solutions. I know he was slightly mad at me for making him go; once he started developing I could tell those feelings were faded.
“This is cool, Mom. Do you want help next time?”
There is something magical about being in the darkroom at night. It was almost spooky and then out of nowhere a black and white image of Abigail’s smiling face appears.
The next morning I also focused on Christian. I am a blatant pray-er. I actually believe that if you say a prayer it might actually get answered. This particular week I had been thinking about Christian and how he would have to take driver’s ed. next year. Then I started realizing I wasn’t in the position my parents had been when I started driving. I am broke. Not totally, because I also stay at home. It is my continual choice to give up wealth and luxury to be able to give my kids time and attention. I figure, when I am ready and they are ready; it’s not time yet. Feeling a bit owed I prayed,
“Please help me start putting away money for Christian. I want to help him get a car, like my parents did.”
A few days later Christian and I go across the street to help our neighbors move to Utah. There is a large moving truck and I offer Christian’s assistance with boxes. Instead, Lance, the neighbor, looks over at me,
“Hey, do you want a free car?”
Needless to say a young man about 5’8 nearly jumps out of his shoes. Lance takes a break from boxes and goes for a ride with my son. All we had to do is transfer the title over by the end of the week that ends up being Saturday. The day we leave. I bring Christian down to the DMV. He won’t be driving it for a year, but I let him pay half of the registration. Twenty bucks sounds like a fair deal, right? Which is twenty dollars. This is also something my parents would have done. I want to teach my son; I feel proud at the DMV. We actually have a plan for once. And yes, my prayers do get answered. I have to remember this for other prayers I am still waiting on.
The next comical moment of rebellion is after the DMV trip. I have an appointment with my optometrist. I was going to wait, but this week my contact rips in half while studying. I was planning on dropping my son off, but the line was too long at the DMV. I take him with instead. My sister has been telling me to get the new colored contacts; at least with a hint of color for fun. You have to get this written into the prescription. Obviously, I would have to wait a year if I didn’t request it now. I think, “why not. I can try it. If I don’t like them just switch.” After checking my eyesight I am led into a narrow room with a chair and a mirror and rows and rows of contacts. I am shown the selection and offered a chair.
“Please try as many as you would like until you have found the right color. Please take as many samples as you would like.”
The doctor shuts the door and leaves; indefinitely. Apparently, this is a solemn decision. Looking in the mirror I see kaleidoscope eyes; hints of green and blue and brown stare back at me. I really have an ornate decision that doesn’t fit into my very calculated morning. I can’t think straight and have already been in their half hour. Do I even want these? I look around, no one is looking. The samples say, “Free demo.” I think of poor Christian already waiting an hour. I decide to take one pair of each color and decide later. My purse is piled with little samples of colored contacts. I try not to let them fall out at the register.
I come home to make lunch and do five loads of laundry. Of course with the extra papers and assignments my “one load a day” motto has been altered. I plan all week on a Saturday expenditure. I call the girls in. I have finally broken down and required that they put away their own clothes. I am thankful I had purchased little square baskets, easier to hold than the long rectangle ones, and marked each hamper with a name. I simply fold and set baskets outside my door. I go into their rooms only to carefully observe. I have found quaintly folded items recycled into the washing bin before. I sit in their room on the floor. I am taking a break and it is actually fun to watch them working. I go downstairs and re-arrange the chore board. We spend the rest of the Saturday together; working. This is usually a Saturday morning event, followed by going out somewhere in the afternoon. Tonight we will be in Arizona after a long hard day.
I happily make a full course meal with barbequed chicken and mashed potatoes and corn and bread. I am happy because I am also saving money. The last time we went to the airport around dinner time I spent 60.00 on Subway. Avoidance is the best therapy. We always have dinner every night; together. It is something I hope never goes away. I tell the children how much I am going to miss them. Abigail starts crying, she doesn’t want to leave. Isabelle, my second oldest girl, hugs her and tells her it will be okay. Katie, my middle girl, says,
“Isabelle always babies, Abby and she is mean to me.”
This opens another discussion.
“Why do you feel that way Katie?” I ask respectfully.
She goes on to explain many other instances of injustice. Isabelle stares at her from across the table blankly. These two girls have had the hardest time. They are both uniquely talented and only two years apart. And they have always shared a room.
“Katie is messy and gets into my things,” Isabelle says.
Katie tries to say something unkind, instead she can’t talk. She has a lump in her throat and looks like she is about to cry. Isabelle stares back, but less cold.
“I am sorry, Katie.” She says, kinder.
“I don’t care anyway. It doesn’t hurt my feelings,” Katie says back.
Her words do not match her face. She has a tear in her left eye, forming.
“Oh, Katie. I don’t think that is true. I think you and your sister both care about each other. You should both try harder to let each other know you care,” I say while rubbing her back.
Isabelle gets up from dinner and comes over, she warmly hugs her sister saying,
“Sorry I hurt your feelings.”
Katie leans in and says, “I love you, Isabelle.”
This is a moment I have been waiting on for a few months. They finally broke down and hugged.
I have the kids do the dishes and I do finishing touches. Then everyone gets into their pajamas. I think back to the last time I had finals.
“This isn’t as bad as that,” I say to myself silently.
I had four English classes and it was absurd. Only this senior year have I taken full time classes. Add in all writing and you have another cataclysmic event. I barely survived. By finals week things had gotten pretty bad. I remembered how it was snowing profusely and my sister was getting married and how I had a stack of papers due at the end of a long week. I grabbed two cokes and a bag of snickers and locked myself in my room. My sister was living with me for two reasons. 1. I had introduced her to her fiancé’ and he lived down the street. 2. She wanted to help me get through senior year, since I was dying to finish. She even pushed her date back until after finals, just so I could finish the semester stress free. She married at Christmas break, in Phoenix a couple of days after. The night of my caffeine splurge the sugar rush overtook me. I had thought the caffeine would be a great assortment of options; as opposed to turning in late assignments. At 3 a.m. I felt a rush of anxious endorphins. I couldn’t sit any longer. My hand was cramped and I had more energy than needed. It was too cold and snowy to go outside so I decided to jump on my bed. I remember that moment; looking out the window. The moonlight falling down on a cascade of white snowflakes. It was a superb. And a giant reflection on how ludicrous this whole raising four children and going to school thing really is. That and that overdoses of caffeine and I do not mix.
I decide the whole penny incident surmounts in excess worry. It really isn’t a big deal in comparison to the coke incident. If that is all that happens this finals season; who really cares? At least I made it through the week. My kid are going to have so much fun with their Dad and relatives. I am going out with some friends. Visiting family. I might hang out by the pool for a couple of days. I’ll get to visit with my Dad and tell him I am graduating soon and how easy it really all is. And how he needn’t worry so much. Yes, all is well. I am excited. Who cares about the penny?
At the airport I take the little girls over to the indoor gym. They have a giant school bus and helicopter made out of plastic. They go up and down the slide, happily. I am on my phone, texting friends that will be welcoming me that week. A man in aiport attire walks up briskly. He is wearing what appears to be a pilot’s hat. He hands me two pennies,
“You know what these are for right?”
I don’t have a chance to answer. He walks on ahead, motioning for me to follow. We stand in front of a blue wishing well where pennies go round and round to the bottom.
“I love to see the happiness on children’s faces when I give them these pennies.”
He gives my daughters a handful of pennies.
“I always have a stock on hand.”
I thank him smiling. The girls spend twenty minutes racing each other’s pennies. I look at my phone, it is time to get on the plane. We made it.
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