The Compromise

4. The Omelet of Sobriety

Isaac crawls in next to me sometime before dawn. I don't open my eyes. I can still feel the world tilting in that tell tale fashion. I couldn't have been asleep more than an hour or two at best. There is a taste of spiced meat and greasy cheese in my mouth, a pleasant balm for a wine sour stomach. That's right, the 2 AM encounter that was not a dream at all, with hot neighbor Jay. I groan and roll over, pull Isaac in close. His elbows dig into my stomach as he wraps a leg around me, and buries his face in my chest. He shivers and I forget about tacos and Jay's stupid sexy smirk. I pull him closer, squeeze him tight, until I can feel the tension drain from his body.

Guilt crests and kills the buzz of wine.

I should have put him to bed, not left him there on the couch. He woke up alone, in the dark living room. He had to come find me. I stroke his back and try not to cry. Four in the morning is a terrible time to reflect on your effectiveness as a parent and thanks to three glasses of Arbor Mist, I have no mental filter.

Isaac slips back into sleep but I lie awake for another hour, my brain a churning mess as my hand keeps a steady rhythm up and down his back. It is utter exhaustion that pulls be back under. I don't remember falling back asleep but I wake to pools of sunshine beneath the shaded windows and Isaac's finger up my nose.

The sharp discomfort reminds me to cut his nails. I jerk away, pray I'm not bleeding, and start to sit up. Regret is immediate as the hangover hammers a spike between my eyes.

"I'm never drinking again," I mutter. The lingering taste of tacos has given way to proper dragon breath. With this headache, I am convinced I could very well belch fire.

"Cereal please," Isaac chirps. It's a small miracle he uses words at all, further incentive to get my ass out of bed and get him breakfast.

"Okay, baby, hang on." I squeeze my eyelids, a vain attempt to banish the pain. I need a hot shower, a bottle of water, and a double dose of aspirin to get through the day. I might be lucky to get two out of three, most likely I'll get one.

Little boy morning breath wafts over my face as Isaac looms. "Ceeerrreeaaaall puhleeze."

"Wait please," I beg. There is a pleading whine in my voice I am none too proud of, not that Isaac's picks up on it.

His solution is to ask louder. "CEREAL PLEASE!" The words are a static shock to my brain, abrupt, painful, and unpleasant. He pokes at my scrunched up eyelid, scrapes a fingernail across the sensitive skin.

"Isaac!" He pulls back at the sharpness in my tone, but I sense him hovering, waiting to strike again. "Go sit at the table."

He bounces off me. The jostle is total agony but I grit my teeth and force myself to sit up. I can't leave him alone in the kitchen for more than a minute or he will get into everything and anything not locked down. With that motivation, I am out of bed, but each step drags as I make my way from the bedroom. The day is not off to a good start, a mild understatement as I make it to the kitchen and find Isaac finger painting the table with the dregs of a forgotten Arbor Mist bottle. If I wasn't so hungover, I'd pause for a short pity party. Instead I yank the bottle out of his hands and toss it in the trash. My motions are jerky, rough, I can feel his body tense up on tangled puppet strings as I pull him off the chair. He doesn't understand the sudden shift of my mood. My anger is hard edged and throbs in time to the stabbing pain of my hangover. I stop myself, inhale deep as I struggle for gentleness, for patience. The clock reads 7:40 and I've already lost it.

Please, get through this. Be patient, be gentle, be patient. It is a chant, and a pray, to myself because I am the one who needs to answer it. My breath is shaky but my hands loosen as I guide Isaac to the sink. His fingers still reek of cheap wine but the tap water washes my anger down the drain. I am left with the stabby, stabby hangover and a knot of guilt, caught fast in my throat.