$12.47. From my entire paycheck I have a total of twelve dollars and forty-seven cents left for myself. 30% came off in taxes – I never even saw it. Another couple hundred to pay for the water (he took a 28 minute shower the other day) and the electricity. (I’ve asked him to turn out that light in the kitchen before he leaves for work 36 times) What can I do with $12.47? I could finally pick up a new razor or some new underwear from Walmart. Not the kind I used to buy, no, those are twelve dollars a pair and lacy and beautiful and sexy. I haven’t bought a pair like that since the baby was born. The baby. She is so wonderful – like I was wrong about love before she was born. Sure, I love him, but not like I love her. Motherhood is about selflessness, yet sometimes, at work, my mind will flood with how much of my paycheck goes towards that tiny human. Like when a vending machine suddenly dumps out its change – the little socket overflowing onto the ground. When was the last time we ate out? The baby was born last September (18 months) and I was on bed rest for my entire last trimester (another 3 months). It was probably the last time I wore twelve dollar underwear too.

$12.47. I could wash my car or pick up a new book from that cute shop down the street from my work. But when would I have time? (9-7) Everyday, six days a week. “That’s what you get for choosing such a demanding career” I’m waiting for her first moment of inspiration, when she will rush into my arms and tell me that one day she wants to be a vet, or a doctor, or a ballerina, or something. I can’t remember (not once in 34 years) a time when I told my mother what I hoped to become, that she didn’t answer with, “What about being a mom? Will you have time to be a mom if you are an astronaut?” I could be a damn couch cushion and there wouldn’t be enough time to be anyone’s mom. Six years in college. Two years as associate. Ten hours a day. And only $12.47 for my own.

$12.47. I could buy a lottery ticket. Just a quick-pick. 6 million. 15 million. 64 million dollars. I could have $64 million and I still would not have enough time to be a mom. I could quit my job – no I couldn’t. I could move to an island (population: me) but babies and islands are not complementary of one another. I could buy myself all of the lacy underwear in the world; buy a million new books; buy a new car, shiny, no wash needed. I could put my mom into a home equip to deal with the bitterly and old, and not regret it when I only came to visit on Christmas and birthdays. I could buy him everything he has ever wanted – would he pay attention to me then?

$12.47. I go down to the corner store. Park my car. Open the door (ding!). Greet the attendant. Grab the rectangular box off of the cold, dusty, shelf. Put it on the counter. “That’s $10.33. Cash?” I push open the door (ding!) Get back into my car. Drive home. Open the package. Pee. Wait (3 minutes) Positive. 

$2.14. Its 5 o’clock. He will be home any minute. The baby starts to cry.