“Double-you, ex, why and zee! Now I know my ABC’s. Next time won’t you sing with me?” a dissonant cacophony of small voices crashed around me. I smiled at them, at their darling round faces, their cookie-dough fingers—germ-ridden and sticky. I smiled, and I winced, checking the clock desperately. It was only five after 8 in the morning, five minutes since they had arrived. Lunch time came like a rare breeze on a hot summer day. (Unfortunately, this hot summer day came with nothing but the sweet smell of warming trash and neglected dog poop.) I stopped by the lounge for lunch.

“Rumor’s been going around that you nearly lost it on your Three’s group this morning,” Sheryl said as I entered. 

“Can you blame me? They’re insufferable. If I had to listen to that little Daniel screeching one more time, I would’ve sent my head through a wall.”

“This isn’t the first time, you know,” she warned me, her voice sweet and low. I felt sick.

“Great, let them fire me. I can’t take it any more. I’m trapped in a room with a bunch of insane, germ-infested, and chronically sticky menaces and God forbid raise my voice.” I laughed. I was tired. I couldn’t have Sheryl thinking I’d lost it completely. She didn’t, but her eyebrows furrowed with something like pity and concern, and I watched her glistening eyes fix on my hand. My hand, which I just then realized was bleeding after I’d picked at the skin with my nails. Sheryl sighed, and I scoffed—it wasn’t her hands bleeding.  

“Have you thought about leaving,” she paused, “or maybe just taking a break? I know it’s been hard this past year” her voice faded, she knew what she’d done. I left, shutting the door hard, and muttering something like an apology just in case anyone in the hallway saw it. I didn’t want a break. I didn’t deserve one. I wanted to leave. Forever. 

Sheryl had been right last summer when she told me not to come back after maternity leave (if I can even call it that). I’m not a mother. I was—almost. But there was no heartbeat when she was born, and her nursery remained empty and cold when I went home three days later. I came back three months later, back to these disgusting monsters of children. I thought that maybe it would help to be surrounded by them. It didn’t. They got me sick and irritated and they weren’t even mine. I hated them—and I loved them—with their little faces and sticky hands. I hated their parents, smiling at their every idiotic move. I smiled too, and I pretended. I turned when they said ‘Mommy’ and stared as they leapt into their mothers’ arms at pick up time. I played make-believe all day long. All day long, I dreamed my impossible, sickening, beautiful dream, and I watched as it was gobbled up in front of me.

During Recess I brought the three-year-olds to the park. I paired them up, and dragged them along behind me as we walked. Every block I stopped for a headcount. Then there came the dog—a tiny little brown stubby thing—and all hell broke loose. Squeals of delight and “Doggy!” erupted and I scrambled to get the children back in line. When I got them in order again—still squealing and giggling—I began my end-of-the-block headcount. I’d made it to five when one little girl shrieked louder than the rest, crackling and shrill and terrified. The others fell silent. I turned around, following her gaze to the avenue. Daniel lay stunned on the pavement, and his welling eyes met mine. A bike—wheels still spinning—lay beside him. The biker sat, also stunned, shaking his head and nodding, and dragging his hands along his face. His phone lay beside him, ringing 911.

That night I lay stunned in my bedroom. Daniel hadn’t made a sound. I had told him, in my fit of rage, that if he dared to misbehave on his walk, I would keep him in during recess tomorrow. Well, now he’s going to be in during recess for a lot longer than tomorrow. Daniel was fine, mostly. Miraculously, he’d only suffered bruises and a sprained ankle. His parents were not so fine. They wanted me dead.

I took myself out to my favorite Italian place far too late to be considered dinner. The waiter knew my order, and sat me in my usual booth in the corner with a view of the whole place. I stared blankly at frill curtains, checkered red and white tablecloths and yellowing floral wallpaper. They’d neglected to change the decor (besides the tablecloths) from the nursery that it once was. Sometimes I imagined that the tables were cribs, and tried to picture what the seated customers looked like as infants—crying and diaper-clad. When I came here—alone—every night I was reminded that my days were false. I played make-believe. I played ‘House.’ I played ‘Mommy.’

Tonight there was only one other customer, sitting at the other end of the room. His thick, curled mustache was spattered with tomato sauce, as he slurped pieces of spaghetti one by one. I watched as each strand passed from the bowl to his fork and then disappeared quickly—wriggling as if alive—through his puckered lips. I imagined my dreams disappearing before me, one by one—thrashing and crying, and then still as I struggled to let her go.