Motherhood always seemed to leave me short on time, but I was determined to squeeze in both hobbies, the beach and reading. Even if I did look like an exhausted, homely version of Belle while doing it. 

In many ways, being single is less complicated, but now my entire life feels like one giant juggling act. Juggling is something I’ve never been good at. Despite that fact, I find myself working full-time while simultaneously trying to balance motherhood, solitude, inner peace, and everything else in between. It isn’t long before this juggling act starts taking its toll on me. It just doesn’t come easy for me. 

Mothers everywhere around me seem to be happy and well-adjusted to their roles. From a distance, I observe them at the park or on the internet. As I watch them, their vibe is calm, cool, and collected. They seem to ooze parental confidence. Something I just don’t seem to have.

It’s almost unsettling. There they are, just momming away like they know exactly what they are doing, entirely empowered by their opinions. They seem so noticeably confident in their decisions that I can’t help but envy them just a bit. 

How do they KNOW so much?

The only thing I know for certain is that I don’t really know anything. My awareness of my own ignorance is big enough to drown in. The sense of extreme responsibility alone is enough to send me over the edge. 

How do moms do this?

With motherhood taking a front seat, my dreams and plans drift softly into the distance. I try everything I can to balance my soul, motherhood, and my goals. It seems futile, though. 

Along the way, I finally realize the key to life isn’t the perfect routine. It’s simply balance. Balance is the key to happiness. Well, one of them. They don’t tell you that the key to happiness is more than one key. 

I suppose it was the searching of this balance that led me onto the dance floor every other weekend to shake off steam.

 Quite literally. Every other weekend, I’d drink myself into the next dimension. I must have had some great times judging by the pictures, but the truth is, I barely remember any of the moments in them. Except one.

There I am, freshly 23, standing in front of the mirror, getting ready. I slip my big teal hoop earrings into my ears and then add a coat of lipgloss to my lips.

 “Noel,” I say, glancing at her in the mirror next to me. “Are you almost ready?” Her big blue eyes catch mine and she flashes me a smile. “Five minutes,” she promises as a giggle escapes her pink, glossy lips.

I sigh. We both know this is a lie. I smile at our similarities. We make a terrible team. 

Noel is bright-eyed and bubbly, with a smile that can light up the whole room. There’s just something I love about her. To me, she practically hung the moon. With her kind heart and funny wit, we quickly became best friends.  

While I wait for Noel to finish getting ready, I head to the kitchen for a drink. When I open the fridge, it’s filled with fresh fruits and colorful vegetables that I’ll never remember to eat. Breezing right past them, I lean into the refrigerator and grab a bottle of water right before I reach into the freezer to pull out my big bottle of vodka. 

Placing both bottles on the counter, I unscrew the lids with a quick flick of the wrist. I bring the water bottle to my lips and take a swig of it. The cool liquid fills my mouth and all I can think about is how boring it tastes. I pour the rest of it down the drain and pour the vodka in its place. 

Who needs water anyway? 

I put the vodka back in the fridge but not before taking a swig. It burns like fuck and I instantly regret it. Yuck.

         Noel’s voice carries through the house and into the kitchen. “You’re not starting without me, are you?” 

I guiltily wipe the back of my mouth with my hand and skip back into the living room, waving my water bottle proudly in the air. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I insist, flashing her a wink. I know she’s on to me.

“Is that what I think it is?” Her eyes light up as she asks the question. Her eyes sparkle with anticipation as she waits for my reply.

“Sure is,” I assure her. 

She flashes me a knowing grin.

Reapplying her lip gloss for the third time, she presses her lips together and says, “Let’s do this!” 

Tossing her the keys and slipping on my shoes, we slip out the front door. I can’t wait to be on the dance floor. Blasting our music in the car, we dance all the way to the bar. 

Most of our evenings look a lot like this, except we often find ourselves back at the beach, surrounded by friends. With girlfriends in tow, we spend every other weekend laughing under the glow of the moonlight and dancing beneath the stars. 

Somehow, this seemed like a perfectly effective way to blow off steam from work and the exhaustion that we affectionately call motherhood. 

 As for my weekdays, they are typically spent working in the marketing department at our little local theme park. In the evenings, I try to spend my time playing the role of super mom and then cleaning myself to sleep. I do this every day, repeat after repeat. I’ve never been a creature that craves constant routine, but here I am, living and breathing it.  

Some days I feel like I’m already dead and just going through the motions. Meanwhile, the rest of society is operating on a 9-to-5, and they seem to be just fine. 

Each weekend seems to pass quicker than the one before it. As another Monday morning rolls around, I’m pulling up to work. Once again, I’m late clocking in.

No wonder your boss hates you. You’re a train wreck. Get some help!

My self-lecture is most likely in vain. No matter how hard I try or how often I lecture myself, I just can’t seem to be on time. When I reach my desk, I plop down in my seat and flash my coworker a sheepish grin. 

         She looks at me expectantly.

 “Good morning, chica.” She says with a smirk.

“Morning,” I mumble, sinking further into my seat. I look at the piles of paper on my desk in disgust.

From the looks of it, you would think that I hate doing my job, but that isn’t exactly true. Not really. Ok, not entirely.

This job is my first real taste of marketing. When I started, I had zero marketing experience. Ironically, it isn’t the marketing concepts that I struggle with so much as the tasks and organization. 

Sometimes I think this could be a field that I could excel in if only I was more patient. More disciplined. More structured. More focused. More a lot of things. Sadly, I’m rarely any of those things.

My cell phone rings next to my keyboard, pulling my attention toward it. Glancing at the screen, I can see the last four digits of the number. 

“1301,” I say out loud. “That’s Eddie. I better answer it,” I tell Glory as she works quietly next to me at her desk. 

Eddie is our boss and the owner of the park. Stepping outside, I nervously answer the phone. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Jessi! How do you feel about being in a commercial?” He asks me cheerfully. The question catches me off guard a bit. 

“Uh. Um. I’m not sure.” I answer honestly.

Say no. It sounds horrible.

“It’ll be fun! Say yes.” He insists.

I beg my mouth to say no, but to my horror, it does the entire opposite.

“Ok, I guess. What do I have to do?”

Why did you say that? You don’t even mean it.

I’d been on TV as a kid, but the idea of it now is enough to make me want to vomit. If there’s one place I don’t love being, it’s in front of a camera.

“I’ll fill you in when I’m there tomorrow.” He promises.

“Sounds good,” I lie into the phone.

Why the fuck did you say that? It does NOT sound good. It sounds terrible. 

“Everything ok?” Glory asks me as I return to my seat. 

“Oh, fine. He just wants me to be on TV. Some commercial for the company.”

She laughs at me. “Have fun with that chica.” 

She’s enjoying my discomfort. Yeah, laugh it up. Hilarious.

I give her a sheepish shrug and save his number in my phone. As I plug in the last four digits, I think nothing of it. 1301. He told me that he loves his number because it’s his birthday, but backward. Oddly enough, it’s the same day as my dad’s. 

  I never notice it, but the number is the same on the costume of our company mascot. 

Time begins to fly.

A couple of years go by, and I begin to grow restless. The job becomes mundane, and I can feel my boredom slowly but surely, driving me insane. The routine of ad campaigns is killing me softly. 

Surely there is a way to market that doesn’t feel like this. Sales and marketing can be fun, can’t it? 

That’s when I hear it. 

A small voice whispers to me from the dirtiest corner of my mind. 

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