My Spawn

My bubble contains no ice cubes. Ice cubes must be nurtured to thrive, trays refilled and then released back into their indigenous habitat. This is not a bubble where ice is nurtured or valued, and so it has become extinct.

Likewise, clean towels are no longer known here in this unsterile environment where teenagers roam free. Remains of what were once fresh clean towels can be found, strewn about like shrapnel after an explosion. They have been used and discarded, never to be picked up. Those whom co-exist in my bubble can not be bothered with towels.

Triage is needed where the dishes are concerned. If they would be gathered and assessed, grouped together in accordance with their degree of trauma, some of them might be salvaged. Once part of a strong alliance these vessels have been divided and conquered. Some lay in their own filth piled high in their makeshift burial ground, the sink, chipped and scratched. Others sit in front of the computer or television absorbing the radiation that I was raised to believe could cause blindness. Some would require a team of scent dogs to be found— long ago buried alive, now exanimate under mounds of what was once my wardrobe, and what is now a mountain of rags on bedroom floors of those who claim relation to me… my spawn. 

This bubble was once a well oiled machine practically running itself. The constant white noise of appliances washing and drying clothes and dishes, the smells of sustenance simmering in a slow cooker, and the sight of a well manicured lawn could be viewed through the prisms periphery. All this has fallen victim to teen angst combined with a boycott by me, single mom extraordinaire, standing my ground as my bubble goes to hell in a hand basket. (Not sure what that means.)

On any given afternoon, you may find a dormant specimen on my sofa, his backpack open, its contents purged. This same beast will find sleep elusive when darkness overtakes my bubble. He will become agitated and ask to be allowed to forego his required daily dose of public education and instead continue his respite in my bubble. “No” I firmly respond. “Get thee to a high school!” An hour later the same beast communicates with me via electronic scroll: “I forgot my folder! I got a zero!” In response, I bring forth the thought that: “If one doesn’t indulge in afternoon naps, sleeping at night might not be so intangible, and also, if one were to put ones folder in ones backpack when ones homework was complete, instead of leaving said backpack devoid of all contents until the sound of the school bus rolling past ones bubble motivates one to spring into action, one would always have ones folder…” To which he responds: “Stop trying to make it sound like this is my fault.”

Sometimes I dream of my bubble floating away, with just me inside.


The Daily Prompt, September 3, 2015, Daily Post: Inside the Bubble~ A contagious disease requires you to be put into quarantine for a whole month (don’t worry, you get well by the time you’re free to go!). How would you spend your time in isolation?<a href=””>Inside the Bubble</a><a href=””>Inside the Bubble</a>

9 thoughts on “My Spawn

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