Cake Batter DNA

He stands there, surveilling the 'progress' I've made on my bathroom. Another haphazard side quest born of impetuous and being tired of looking at the unsoothing color of vomit-churned tan. I gaze around at something I'm not entirely proud of but am too tired to care, knowing the fact that I'm showing him this at all is a sign, thinking in my head that I should have spent more time planning, taping, and not painting until 3 am. Re-doing a bathroom is a bitch if you're not gutting it completely. Perhaps I should have gone to the paint store rather than ordering small pints online with no real effort into what would arrive. Possibly, my ex was right not to let me pick up a paintbrush, but also - what-fucking-ever.

I switch the subject to my theory on the movement of the toilet and a hole I can feel beneath the poorly placed floorboard that sits just before the vanity, left there like everything else from the previous owner. I've been contemplating this hole for about three years. He responds that it's likely from rot, rather than the movement of a toilet. I look at a second toilet paper holder in the wall next to the sink, not in reach of the current placement. Despite this, I know he's right, even though the thought had not occurred to me until he said it. Audibly, I feign an exhaustive no; in my head, this explanation aligns significantly with my entire journey in homeownership and... most of my life. Pretty on the surface but rotting underneath.

***

I make a significant decision and signal it over text. It feels anti-climactic in gesture, but I don't truly care. The outcome was desired, and that's all that is important. I'm realizing these days there are a lot of things that should feel momentous that often don't. It's not how they come about as much as that they do.

In a way, I'm throwing caution to the wind. In another way, it's the only path that actively makes sense in my brain. I've convinced myself that I am still making moves with my brain, and I'll continue to believe what I suspect is a lie for another two to three months for safety. I call my sister; she's more giddy than I, but I know it's because she understands how hard it was for me to arrive at this destination, she's been the keeper of every excruciating detail for the past five years.

I tend to take a lot of risks in life; two areas that sentiment has not been true is finances and matters of my heart. I would sooner jump out of a plane and risk my actual life than jump into any additional situation where I may have to live through more scars. It's an interesting admittance to examine. In the past decade, I've gotten so comfortable with scars that I didn't realize I've spent the majority of my life in survival mode. In escaping this by sheer force of rolling up my sleeves and doing the real hard work, I can't tell if I've gotten rigid or so fluid that it makes my skin itch to stand still. Sometimes, I have to ask if there's a difference - both born of knowing oneself and finding comfort, both a detriment at times to growth if fear is the driver. This thought causes me to get stuck on freeze for the rest of the day, where I manage to do nothing but swirl inside my head. I'd be mad at this, except my evening involves a plan. There is always a plan.

***

I text the kids that I'll make dinner at 7:30 and immediately hijack my own plans. I'd be grossed out at the fact that I now text my children in my own home, but it's another thing that I've caved on that no longer matters to me so long as the information is given.

I start it early in an attempt to outwit myself. It's always a 50/50 gamble of success rate. Noticing that it's the first time I've looked out the window all day, and it's still bright out, I'm overwhelmed with the familiarity of what it feels like to cook dinner at a reasonable hour. Yet another notion that goes out the window with teens and juggling life.

My son is staring in the mirror next to the kitchen, messing with his hair. I remember to check in with him about his head space and how he was feeling from the other day. The conversation runs the usual paces, and we land in the territory of me trying to bring his attention to the fact that he often answers questions by not answering them. I have spent years listening to statements that, to the average ear, sound like an answer but, to the more trained, reveal no answer but a circular shape filled with verbs that don't signify or solidify action. He's a very private kid - he keeps most of his thoughts and feelings to himself. It's a factory setting that has always caused him more harm than good, I understand it, though - he's been through a lot. We all have.

I see the shape of his face shift from an unbothered state to annoyance. I'm a skilled architect at building structures to hang myself from, so I point out the fact that he's not answering my question despite the yellow flashing hazards in his eyes and the dull dismissal in his voice. He rephrases his sentence; the outcome is the same. I point this out, too, as I add chili pepper flakes and minced garlic to the fried rice and stir. It's a short sprint from engaged in conversation to him retreating to his room and quickly closing the door. Life seems cruel in that way; it's why I thoroughly question time travel. At his age, I was leaping across a couch, wielding a beer bottle toward the face of a smug bastard who hurt my friend. I was putting myself in danger and calling it fun. I was on my own. And, about a year away from being pregnant with him. I've learned an invaluable amount of knowledge, but can it truly be transferred? Or do we just scream into the ether so that we know we've thrown warning signs, then let the children step into bear traps anyhow?

I keep trying to walk him through his naturally evasive ways; they're very much like his father, a quality that is not a benefit to anyone. Then I hear the echo of many people telling me that you can only do so much; at this age, they just have to figure it out. It's what scares me most in life at this point, if I'm being honest - cake batter DNA.