Worms In My Sink

There are worms in my sink. 10, the last time I counted. Brown, squirmy, and slithering around my silver drain. I ask my youngest child where they came from. In fairness, he came around the corner with dirt-covered hands and hardened mud on his shirt, instantly identifying himself as the culprit.

“I wanted to see if worms could swim.” He answers with a proud smile. I notice brown spots between his teeth.

“Did you eat mud?” I question.

“Of course not!” He responds in horror. “I’m not gross, mom.”

“Did dirt get into your mouth?” I rephrase.

“Yeah, when I was digging the hole my shovel got stuck. Dirt flung up in my face when I pulled it up. Watch.”

Dirt flies across my kitchen counter as he shakes his hair.

“Stop!” I cry. “You’re getting dirt everywhere! My whole counter is a mess! And the worms! I want them out of my sink and back in the yard now!”

“But I haven’t even turned on the water to see if they swim!” He pleads.

“Now!” I firmly respond, my left arm extended towards the back door.

He grabs his yellow sand pail, hastily drops the worms inside, and mumbles about his terrible childhood. 

I return to my muted business call.  “Uh-huh,” I repeat into the line, while I glare wide-eyed at the dirt-covered child. 

The worm lover looks up at me with sad eyes. I point to the door and mouth, “Go!”

“But, mom,” he starts.

“No, but Moms!” I respond, muting the meeting, again. “Bring those worms back where you got them from or so help me I am telling your father to come home.”

“Now I’ll never know anything about how worms swim!” He stomps his feet and storms back outside.

I stand by the window and watch him dump the worms into a fairly large-sized hole, which makes me wonder if the kids are trying to dig their way out of this year. 

“I’ll look into that for her,” I say into the line, wondering about our lives and if I’ve done a proper job as a mother.

For months we’ve been sealed inside this house, the four of us elbow to elbow at what was once my beautiful dining room table. We each log into our worlds, get our work done for the day and search for some way to stay happy together. Though our definitions of happy often differ. I prefer a glass of wine, a good book and a nice family movie with popcorn. Numbers One through Three seem to enjoy exploring every possible crevice of the house, yard, and neighborhood, and then wreaking havoc on it-while I’m on a Zoom. 

Calls from neighbors flood the line.

“I’m watching your son out the window. He has urinated into a water gun and is chasing his brothers with it.”

I carefully divert my eyes from the screen to the side window where I see Boy One and Boy Two running around the yard like wild vermins, screaming for their lives. My stomach fills with dread as I smile on screen, and listen to my boss go into another spiel about co-worker conduct and office rules during a pandemic. I stay motionless and switch the phone to silent as another neighbor calls. 

They’re going to call Child Services on me, I think. My palms begin to sweat and I plead with every God that I’ve ever heard of to end this meeting.  

“That’s it!” I hear Number Two yell. “Get him!”

Number One and Number Two whip off their pants and run after Number Three with vengeance. Their intent is to urinate on Number Three-minus the gun. My eyes go wide and my mouth forms a tight line. In a panic, I lean forward, unmute myself and begin to add something to the meeting while simultaneously pressing the button on the side and turn off the computer. The plans works. I have enough time to run outside, scream at the kids, send Number Three in the shower, while Number One and Two wait in the hall for their turn.

“Must be a poor connection. Sorry about that,” I say as I log back on.

Over this year home together, I’ve evolved and managed moments with some creative endevors.  My right pinkie is like a cowboy with a holster, ready to mute/unmute on a second’s notice. My face is like a Stedson wife, a thin emotionless smile on screen at all times. The house may shake as a WWE battle consumes my living room. Boy Two may yell, something valuable may shatter (I can tell from the strange silence that fills the house directly after) but my half-smile does not budge. There I sit, happy and put together for the world to see, while my children create a gapping hole, and friend worms, behind the scenes. 

I could go into this further-discuss the mud pool Number Two made for his brothers, the box Number Three made to represent him in Zoom class, or the porch pranks Number One is adamant on playing on our neighbors-but there’s a worm whose end is sticking out of my silver drain and only five minutes before my next Zoom…just enough time to let Number Three come in and turn on the water.