Sangria Mom

My mom was in court the other day, with her friend Carol. It’s not my mom’s fault. It’s not Carol’s fault, either, but the judge hasn’t determined that yet, because they got thrown out of court for not following directions.

Clearly, this debacle called for a bottle of muscadine sangria.

If you’re not from Eastern North Carolina, you may be unfamiliar with the muscadine grape and its sweet ruby-red wines. They’re not for everyone. They’re not for me, either, but when mom offered me the half-empty bottle, I took it anyway. I am drinking it now, in the bathtub, while I read a book of poems, type this story on my laptop (unwisely), and listen to my husband play guitar and sing to the kids. This is our life.

Mom gave me the wine when I was at her house for after-school pickup. The kids get off the bus there, for no good reason except it allows them to see their grandmother more often. She lives less than a quarter-mile from the primary school, along a busy secondary road; everyone drives by her house at pick-up and drop-off times.

While we waited for the bus, mom told me about the evening before, when a family member, let’s call her Sadie, stopped by to talk. Sadie is dating a guy with three kids. The kids’ mother is not in the picture; the guy is raising them alone while working ten-hour days, and Sadie is worried about her role as stand-in parent. She doesn’t think she can handle it. Being a mom is hard, she said, and my mother agreed. She remarried when my brother and I were young, to a man who already had a daughter. It wasn’t easy.

I was listening intently as Mom described the difficulties of raising kids, when the bus brakes screamed to a stop at the end of the driveway. Running out to the road, I waved grandly at the bus, calling my sons’ names, as if their arrival was the highlight of my day. I read to do this in some magazine or social media post, and it feels right.

Cars were lined up in both directions – the other pick-up parents and everyone in town getting to where they were going. They could stare if they wanted. There is no shame in being a good mom.

But then I noticed the half-empty bottle of sangria held high in my hand for all the world to see.

My mother and Sadie are right – this mom thing is hard.

– by Jessi Waugh