They were rowdy, loud, and I hadn’t quite gotten enough sleep last night. The noises were grating on me: some kids shrieking (at least it was in happiness, or something close to it), another kid tapping the table with a spoon (a soundtrack rhythm of annoying proportions), and one more kid racing a scooter through the kitchen (adding to the shrieks), while I tried to put together a smoothie for breakfast.
I poured the yogurt, shook out strawberries, added a few frozen bananas and switched on the blender, enjoying the familiar hum that almost drowned out the sounds of my children. I closed my eyes, trying not to count how many summer days remained, trying to breathe and grasp at a flimsy, slippery hope, trying not to admit that this—this intolerable, madness-filled morning—was the last straw of summer vacation.
I shut off the blender. Turned toward the glasses, lined up. Started to pour.
Someone screeched.
“This is the last straw.”
Had I said the words aloud?
I looked up. My oldest son was staring at me, his brown eyes wide. He repeated himself. “This is the last straw.” He held out a mason jar, one stainless steel straw scraping along its lip.
“Where are the other straws?” he said.
I couldn’t answer. I could only laugh.
He stared at me for a minute, then bent and opened the dishwasher, where other straws gathered in one rectangular tray. He stuck them in the cups after I filled them.
I thanked him for his help—a bright spot in an otherwise trying span of moments.
(Photo by Philip Veater on Unsplash)
