FROM RITAROO
I glance over to the clock. It’s one thirty. God, I have to get some sleep. Tomorrow I have about fifteen meetings back-to-back at work and I've volunteered to man the face painting table at the PTA Christmas bazaar during my lunch break,after which I have to go back to work for five more hours and then skirt off to class until ten. I hate these endless days. My girls hate them even more. The bribes of a better house, more money, and better toys once mommy finishes her degree have long since worn off. They just want to come home in the evening and I can’t blame them, so I’ve adopted a “that’s just the way it is” attitude. Rolling back over onto my stomach, I buried my head in the pillows and squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to will myself to sleep.
I wonder how my mom did it, being a single mother that is. I always resented how she’d come home and grumpily slam pots and pans down on the stove and, when dinner was done, promptly announced it was bed time. I wished that she’d had time to read us a story sometimes or at least watch a television program with us. As children the end of our day was signaled by the slamming of my mother’s door followed by the muffled warning, “I bet’ not hear nothin’ out of none of y’all or else I’m whippin’ ass!” With that, my brother and I were expected to quietly undress, bathe ourselves, iron our clothing for the next day and go to bed. Standing on the other side of the situation, I have a newfound respect for my mother. My children eat lunch meat sandwiches the three evenings we are home during the weekdays and at the end of the night I can be found on the sofa staring, zombie-like, at the television. My oldest daughter, Nadia, usually doesn’t ask me for help with her homework anymore. Although she’s only six she can read better than most twelve-year olds. This is not because I’ve spent so much time tutoring her, but because the child needs to read to survive in our household. I kept telling myself that it’s only one more year and then I’ll graduate and life will be easier. Truthfully, I know that every time I say this I am lying to myself. Every year there will too much to do and not enough time it, there’ll still be long days and short nights, and there will still be me, not enough person for all the things I take on. On nights like this one, when I can’t seem to fall asleep despite my exhaustion, I wonder if someday my children will feel the same way about me as I did about my mom when I was a kid—that she cared about doing everything except raising me.
CRITIQUE
Not bad. Watch your tenses. Empty verbs hamper this a bit, but I think it’s pretty darn good. I expect it's because you KNOW whereof you write? Good emotion, in my opinion. You need to split that last paragraph into two.
The hiccup I experienced was the six year old with homework. Do kindergarteners have homework? I think I'd make Nadia a little older. Then the main character can experience even more hefty guilt about leaning on Nadia for babysitting, making meals, doing laundry, etc., and Nadia can build up some hefty resentment about being robbed of her childhood.
I think it shows plenty of promise. Read it without the empty verbs:
I glance at the clock...one thirty. God, I need sleep. Tomorrow, about fifteen meetings line up to pound me at work, and I volunteered to man the face painting table at the PTA Christmas bazaar during my lunch break, then it's back to work for five more hours, and then off to class until ten. I hate these endless days. My girls hate them even more. Empty bribes of a future in a better house, with more money and better toys lost their appeal long ago. They just want to come home in the evening, and I can’t blame them, so I adopt a “that’s just the way it is” attitude. Rolling onto my stomach, I bury my head in the pillows and squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to will myself to sleep.
I wonder how my mom handled life as a single mother. I always resented how she came home and grumpily slammmed pots and pans on the stove and after dinner promptly announced bed time. I wanted her to read us a story sometimes or at least watch some television with us. The slamming of my mother’s door followed by the muffled warning, “I bet’ not hear nothin’ out of none of y’all or else I’m whippin’ ass!” signaled the end of our day. She expected my brother and me to quietly undress, bathe, iron our clothing for the next day, and sleep.
Standing on the other side of the situation, I feel new respect for my mother. On the three evenings we ARE at home during the week, my children eat lunch meat sandwiches, and I end up on the sofa staring like a zombie at the television. My oldest daughter, Nadia, almost never asks for help with her homework anymore. Although only six, she reads better than most twelve-year-olds - not because I tutored her so well, but because she needs to read to survive in our household. I keep telling myself that graduation is only a year away - life will ease up after that - but I know I lie. Every year will hold long packed days and short numb nights, and me spread thinly over it all. When I can’t sleep despite my exhaustion, like tonight, I often wonder if someday my children will feel the same about me as I did my mom — that I cared about everything except them.