I've been going to school, full time for the past year or so. As a mom and wife, some days are a little more work than others. This quarter, I Mondays are madness. I have a 1:30-3:10 class, and go back for a 6:10-10 class. The rest of the week isn't nearly as insane, but I started trying out an approach to creative non-fiction. I want to flesh it out a bit, and incorporate more of my voice, but here it is, in it's raw glory. It’s the fall quarter, and a Monday. Class was let out just moments ago and I am sitting in my car, letting the peace and excitement of the last hour and forty minutes wash over me and wash away as I start counting off the minutes until my son is out of pre-school. He’s out at 4:00 sharp, but I can arrive five minutes early. Only five minutes. The list of my duties piles mentally, and prepares to tip as I start the car and head around the bend to the childcare center on campus. When I arrive, Aiden acknowledges my presence with a coy smile. He’s still working a puzzle and wants to finish it, and considers starting the next one before he is ready to leave. I try to enjoy these moments rather than rush him because he has time to play as he should and I don’t. I take the stairs, my arthritic knees groaning in complaint with each step, shouting out in random creaks. Aiden runs along the ramp, and we meet at the bottom, reaching for each other’s hands as we walk through the parking lot to the car where he is a big boy and can strap himself into his car seat. There is so much freedom at the age of four. We get home and it’s when the rush begins. I walk in and say hi to our older sons, Jonathan (10) and Devin (8). They’re in the same autism class at school and my husband works on homework with them when they get home. He helps with homework when he meets them after school. My husband has rearranged his work schedule to go in earlier so he can meet them at the bus after school because the older two get home when I’m in class. On Tuesdays, my Dad helps out. My husband doesn’t get much more than a hello as I drop my backpack on our bedroom floor and head for the kitchen where I prepare dinner. I start with peeling potatoes then dicing them. “Mommy, please give me some Koolaid.” Stop chopping. Rinse hands. Pour the drink and continue dicing. We’re out of the meat marinade my family likes, so I throw together a mixture of minced garlic, Dijon mustard and Worcestershire sauce, hoping my boys will eat it and not demand something else, throwing off my budgeting and planning that takes place during the grocery trip on pay days. Next I run my vegetable peeler along the zucchini, long ribbons of green fall off in slivers of slime because these are fresh from the yard. I toss the tri-tip in the oven, and start the potatoes boiling. In a sauté pan, the zucchini sits in a small amount of butter. I head to the bedroom to rest my legs and mind a bit. “What’s your hurry?” my husband says. He’s laid back and seems content with the world. He’s happy I’m home. I’m just as happy to see him but exhausted. We’ve been married eleven years and the sparks and glow are still there on the important things. “I have to get this done and I don’t know if dinner will be ready by the time I leave for class. If I have to go, I’ll set it up so you just have to pull the roast out when the alarm beeps.” In that moment his face falls and he replies, “I forgot” and I see his world has collapsed under the weight of my pending and temporary abandon. He’s sad that he’ll be home alone with the kids and he’s exhausted from his day at work. I forget my own hunger. I get up to check on dinner repeatedly, returning to my bed for the rest I need, but won’t fully get until much later tonight. Turn the green slivers of zucchini over. Pierce the potatoes to make sure they’re tender, drain them and add butter and the rest of the half and half because I forgot to pick up milk and there’s just enough for the glass that Jonathan likes with dinner. In that moment, I want to be in class. In that moment I don’t care that my kids will go to bed before I get home. I refuse to be brought down by the idea that the moment I am waiting for with patient anticipation is the moment my husband is dreading the most. The classroom is my refuge. I stab the meat thermometer into the roast with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. I set the timer and hope the batteries don’t die. Packing my books for my second class of the day, I run out on my kids and husband for school, feeling a little guilty. I reach the Valley entrance to Cal State LA, and start singing to “Roxanne” along with the police, ignoring the nagging notion that maybe I’ve sold my soul to the restraints of motherhood that I have framed my life with. I double check that my clothes aren’t red. Parking is easy enough and I lock up, throwing my parking permit on the rear view mirror and walking to class, knowing I’m late and will make someone get up to let me in. I take a little pleasure knowing that someone is jumping up for me and I’m on the receiving end of someone else’s efforts. In the classroom I am not rushing to prepare a meal, knowing it will be finished before I get home and the possibility of a plate being saved for me is always a gamble. In the classroom, there is no rush and bustle to get a million things done, and if there is, it’s not my responsibility. All of the frustrations of my day can slowly melt away because this is my time to be the center of attention, even if for a question or answer at a time. I’ll worry about the grocery trip I still need to make after class. I’ll worry about the laundry loads that need to be done once I am home, and the pile of dishes in the sink will wait patiently for me. And once my husband goes to sleep, I will work on my homework. First one up and the last one to bed, but that golden time in the classroom is worth it all.