When there’s no room to store things on a computer, or for the convenience of others to have more portable information, the flash drive is jostled into place. It is squeezed into a tight place of darkness to be filled with the overflowing wisdom prized by those who need more memory space than they were first provided. Flipped over and flipped back and flipped once more, the topsy turvy business of keeping all that data together is a seasick ride driven by clumsy fingers.
It’s me. I’m that flash drive.
I’m where hot lunch menus are stored, field trip forms remembered, random bits of trivia that when assembled form the details of our lives are painstakingly catalogued because Lord help us if anyone else tried to remember a damn thing. What other purpose could I possibly serve?
I am the shelf where muddy boots are dropped for safekeeping until they are required again. “Hang on to this for a rainy day. Don’t drop it.” The wet earth slops and forms puddles on once pristine finished wood, reasonable wear and tear for something as utilitarian as a shoe rack, I guess.
I hold them up frantically like many balls I’m juggling, the court jester in the carpool lane who’s been hit by one too many over-ripe tomatoes when a ball is dropped. I cycle them through the air in perfect rhythm until something else is tossed as if its addition would be no inconvenience.
It’s bullshit.
Motherhood feels like being the staging area for something magical that is tread upon by dirty shoes and taken for granted for its flat terrain, ideal for storing things. It’s large enough to hold anything but joy or appreciation for a job well done.
Mothers are more than containers for the castoffs of those in their orbit whose path is gently guided by the gravitational pull measured with care to keep them from colliding with each other. We are not landfills for your forgotten socks and should carry more than our forgotten dreams. And would it kill you to wipe your damn feet at the door?
