The Fade of the Mimosas

If the Bathroom Walls Could Speak

We took the sheets from our mother's bed, the chairs from the dining room table, and made a "house". The smell of the clean linen brought the room to life, as we started to fill the house with different items to make it more comfortable. We took our pillows, glassware, and our favorite stuffed animals. Lining everything up to be the most perfect house. Do you remember? We were five years old and playing house with your cousins and siblings. Somebody would pretend to be the mother, father, grandmother, and babies. There was an element of surprise when it came to choosing the prospective roles and the desire of getting to be the boss of the "babies" because that's what mothers and fathers did to us. But we loved them and we wanted to be just like them.

My cousin pretended to be the father over the entire house, and he would draw a mustache on his face using a black Crayola marker. The one that smelled like black licorice. He wanted to look exactly like my father, and my father had the thickest caterpillar mustache I had ever seen. The entire room would smell as if we lit a black licorice candle, the smell would permeate down the halls and into any room that did not have their door shut. He grabbed my father's favorite tie and knotted it too tightly around his neck, took some of his dark mahogany smelling cologne, which never mixed well with the black licorice, and sprayed it all over himself. Then he waltzed into our house and was now the new father figure of our pretend game.

I borrowed my mom's favorite red lipstick and smeared too much on my lips, placing it back exactly where I found it. I grabbed her Vanilla Lace perfume, the smell of comfort, long summer days, and happiness; spraying it everywhere I could before placing it back. I stuffed two queen sized pillows into my belly; rounding them out to form the best play belly that I could shape. When I was finally ready, I walked out, always holding a hand on my belly, moaning and groaning whenever I had to bend down. Immediately sitting down on a chair, listing off all of my needs to be comfortable and happy as an expecting mother. My little brother – my pretend baby, sat in my lap as we read The Little Mouse, The Red Ripe Strawberry, and The Big Hungry Bear.

Over and over we would play this game. It was played in a natural state and we were all so happy, stress free, and oblivious to the unknown. This game of house and motherhood was pessimistic of me. Motherhood is supposed to be natural. Carrying a baby in my womb should be natural. Craving foods and struggling to bend down because a beautiful baby is growing inside of me, like a weed from a crack, should be natural. But they don't ever teach you that part of the game.

I shivered back to reality when Jenson called my name – "Gemma, sweetheart, how are you doing in there?" I blinked at myself in the mirror, examining the stress that my lack of fertility showed through every tear that fell onto the bathroom sink.The sleeve of my maroon sweater was the best tissue a girl could ask for. I dabbed my tears and took the biggest breath I could, that was quiet enough to remain mine.

I pep myself up in the same manner every month, reminding myself that everything is in God's timing and not mine or Jenson's. It is the same every single month, with the same mindset of it being out of my control. I silently screamed "FUCK OFF" at myself in the mirror while the core memory of playing house with my family played the most vexatious movie inside of my head. Time slowed down in these moments. I could feel myself blinking, the weight of my eyelashes even being too much. The room weighs on me and my thoughts, making me feel heavier than I ever have before.

For 49 days, I have been a bond servant to this room. It brings out the worst in me, yet carries the most value than any other room in my house. This room that I have spent the better half of my marriage in, has seen my highs and lows. I have said the most earnest and repellent things to myself while staring at my reflection. This room is filled with equal amounts of hate and love.