When the boys and I got home, after picking them up at the sitter’s, they knew not to talk to me for at least 30 minutes. I wanted to hear about their day, how they were, and their complaints about the sitter, their teachers, or other kids, but after working twelve hours, I needed some quiet before discussing all of that and fixing dinner, checking homework, overseeing baths, and getting my boys into bed. All three of them were pretty good about giving me that first few minutes. They played quietly, holding off on bickering and their next mischievous adventure. As soon as the kitchen timer dinged, they descended en masse in full and glorious surround sound.

Weekdays were exhausting, and most weekends weren’t much better. Saturday mornings we did laundry, cleaned the apartment, and ran errands. There were groceries to buy for three ravenous, growing boys, bills to pay, and other little chores that didn’t get done during the long work week. It was difficult explaining why I couldn’t buy whatever they wanted if I had plenty of blank checks in the checkbook. Every time I had to tell them they couldn’t have a toy or cool jersey or shoes or candy or whatever they had their hearts set on, we discussed our finances. They knew the spiel by heart, but they still asked. It was their job.

When my boys were growing up, before the days of VCRs and DVDs, going to the dollar movie was a treat, especially when I broke down and bought movie popcorn instead of sneaking in homemade popcorn in my shoulder bag. Sometimes the boys wouldn’t take no for an answer. They wanted large sodas and boxes of candy from the concession stand we couldn’t afford. “Never mind then. Let’s go home,” I’d say as I walked toward the door. The boys quit begging and pleading and went inside, certain I’d follow. I did. I wanted to see the movie, too.

Sundays we went to church and visited family, taking a short break before the whole round of school, work, sitters, and homework began again. Sometimes we topped up the gas tank, made sandwiches, wrapped up cold fried chicken or splurged on fast food, and went to a museum, park, or lake for the day. Other times we took our picnic and went for a drive in the country. Nothing stopped us on those days, not even the fragrance of fresh manure in the pastures or clouds of mosquitoes.

After months and months of what seemed like years and years of long hours and harried nights and weekends full of chores, one Friday night the boys were quieter than usual during the ride home. I was passed over for a much-needed raise because of budget cuts. I’d have to work more hours at my second job, and Saturdays. More hours meant less time with the boys and far fewer weekend movies and picnics. I’d have to pay the sitter more because she’d have to keep them longer, which meant working even more hours to cover the additional costs. Winter was coming. The heating and electric bills would go up; I could barely cover them now. The boys needed winter coats, boots, and warmer clothes.

At home, I dropped down onto the couch, my bag still hooked over my shoulder, tears welling in my eyes. Welfare and Social Service wouldn’t help me; I made too much money. The Air Force protected my ex-husband, who refused to pay child support. My parents wouldn’t help. I had nowhere else to turn.

I was so sunk in despair and disappearing options that I didn’t notice my boys clustering around me. Eddie, my middle son, climbed up on the couch and patted my shoulder with his chubby little hand. A.J., the youngest, climbed into my lap, and David Scott held my left hand. The tears I’d  held back for so long rained down my face. Struggling to get control of myself, I swallowed hard. A.J. reached up and wiped away the tears and cuddled against me. Eddie continued patting my shoulder, and my normally stoic eldest son, David Scott, looked pale and stricken.

“You need a man, Mom,” Eddie said.

A smile escaped me … and then I burst into laughter. I laughed until I was cried again. The boys laughed with me. We laughed so hard and long the neighbors pounded on the walls and ceiling, making us laugh that much harder.

When we could breathe without giggling, I went into the kitchen and turned off the crock pot. It was chili night. Picking up my bag from the couch, I went to the front door. “How about tacos for dinner?” I asked.

David Scott looked at his brothers for a moment; they nodded yes. [AU: Nodded yes or shook their heads no?] “We’d rather have chili,” David Scott said.

Suddenly I knew that however much my boys grumbled and complained about what we didn’t have, they appreciated what we did have: each other. Somehow, we’d find a way to get through whatever happened together.

“Eddie, get the crackers and milk. David Scott, get the bowls and glasses. A.J., set out the silverware and napkins. We’re having chili tonight.”