Let It Burn

It’s a warm Tuesday evening in November with the sun setting just as I pull up to my son’s elementary school. I still have over half a week to go, yet my body and mind are already weary. The toll of balancing life with work, parenting, staying fit, is catching up to me. As the red horizon fades, the impending darkness cautions me to slow down—to rest. “Not yet,” I mutter under my breath as I help my son into his car seat.

My initial intention for the evening centers on coercing my child to eat anything else besides cheese stuffed hot dogs. However, as we pass McDonald’s, my resolution to cajole my son into eating healthy gives way to the familiar convenience of a happy meal. By bath time, my energy level is at an all-time low as I lay prone on the bathroom rug, while Rowan narrates various aquatic adventures for his toys. 

“Mom! I need your help,” cries Rowan. I gaze over the bathtub to see him holding his Ryder Paw Patrol finger puppet with a tiny toy sheep lodged inside. I attempt to dislodge the toy, but my exhaustion overtakes my problem-solving resolve, effectively condemning the sheep to its dark rubbery coffin. I hasten bedtime, barely keeping my eyes open during story time, and manage to have everyone in bed by 7:00 pm. 

I wake the next morning feeling restored. Rowan, with the memory and stubbornness of an elephant, has not given up his campaign to free the little toy sheep. While he brushes his teeth, I begin to pry at the sheep with a knife in the kitchen while Robert cautions me not to stab myself. I set the sheep free without drawing any of my own blood. To Rowan’s surprise, I hand him the sheep, relishing the look of pure amazement on his face.  “How did you do that,” he exclaims in bewilderment. “I’m super mommy, that’s how,” I reply. “Moms are not superheroes,” Rowan retorts. 

I shake off the doubt of my son, lace up my new running shoes, and head out for a run. My first half marathon in a decade is just three days away. I signed up for the race with strong encouragement from my partner Robert. Robert met me when I was treading water as a newly divorced single mom. He did not save my life, but his faith in me ignited a fire within my soul to rediscover my self-worth. Gazing at the stars burning brightly above, the lyrics from Shaboozey’s “Let It Burn,” begin to play.

The rhythm of the acoustic guitar sets a steady tempo that I easily glide into. “They say time heals all, but the pain runs too deep; you lie to yourself so much that you started to believe that love doesn’t last cause it’s all you’ve ever seen.” With a tear glistening down my face, I allow the words to sink into my soul. I pick up the pace to the lyrics: “Grab the matches, start a fire; throw the memories in the flames it’s behind us; see the gold in the red new horizons; let it burn, let it burn.” I feel as though I am allowing my own true voice to finally speak as I break into a full-blown sprint to “watch your step coming off the life that you left; break the rules, cross the line, make a mess; this may be the only chance that you get.” 

I return home with the burden of my divorce behind me, and my renewed resolve to be strong for my son leading my path forward. Rowan and I bundle up and head to the bus stop with me pulling him in his chariot, i.e., a collapsible wagon from Costco. I settle into the beach chair we brought, pull Rowan to my lap, nestling him in the warmth of my jacket. “Mom, I have an idea,” Rowan proclaims. “I want to show you how I can transform into a Sonic Spiderman; where is my Spiderman backpack?” 

In a fraction of a second, I realize I left Rowan’s backpack in our driveway. I glance at my watch. We have three minutes before the bus is supposed to arrive. I launch into a sprint, and I’m only ten yards in when I hear Rowan yell, “mom, the bus is coming!”  Seeing the bus in the rear horizon, I refuse to turn back. I pick up speed, sprinting at a pace that to me feels faster than Hussein Bolt’s most stellar Olympic performance. 

I grab the backpack, pivot, and sprint back to the bus stop. To my dismay, I see the bus depart from the stop with Rowan left behind, as he refused to get on without his backpack. The lyrics “break the rules, cross the line, make a mess; this may be the only chance that you get,” pop into my head. Channeling Gandalf the Grey in his epic battle with the enormous Balrog in Lord of the Rings, I move to the center of the street, raise my arm with my hand extended, commanding the bus “you shall not pass!”  The bus halts at a stop, and the other parents erupt into a cheer. I help Rowan put on his backpack. He beams as he ascends the stairs. “Baby stop,” I say. “You see, I AM super mommy.”