Plenty of

Plenty of Thyme

“I don’t know Dad, there’s plenty of time left on the clock. The Bills can still kick a field goal to win the game,” Michelle said to the gray haired man sitting in the worn green recliner. She was standing in the doorway holding a fistful of black plastic garbage bags. 

Her dad smirked but his eyes never left the screen, “One of these days, kid, one of these days. You’ll see. Our Buffalo Bills will win a Super Bowl. Just probably not this season.”

“You say that every season. Now I’ve got to go shovel off the floor in Ella’s room. If I’m not down in thirty, call in the Coast Guard or Marines or whoever it is that you need to call in an emergency bedroom disappearance.”

“You’ll do anything to get out of peeling potatoes, won’t you?” her dad called after her retreating back. 

***

“You had plenty of time to clean your room. Now it is my turn and it won’t be pretty,” She had the garbage bags in her hand and her hands on her hips. “I’m not sure why you even have a dresser or a closet if you aren’t going to use them.” The rest of the family was coming soon and she wasn’t having them pass judgement on the house or her housekeeping. Again.

Earbuds in her ears and seated cross legged on her flowered bedspread, Ella looked up at her mom. “I know where everything is this way. Besides, I’ll just keep my door closed.”

Michelle barely held back a sigh as she rolled her eyes. At least pick up the towels and then come help me and Grandma in the kitchen.

***

Each year Michelle was sent to the local stand, since the one near her house had the freshest fruits and vegetables, according to her mother. Once there her task was to choose the orangest, most beautiful pumpkins she could find. Sometimes she would buy three, in hopes of saving one life for a centerpiece for the table. Each year her mother went at them like a mass murderer with a butcher knife. 

When Michelle entered her kitchen orange flesh and pulp were hanging from the ceiling. The countertop was smeared with pumpkin juice and seeds. On the stove a pot was simmering with chunks of pumpkin inside. Three orange carcasses remained on the marble countertop. Her mom stood beside the stove with a wooden spoon looking radiant. 

“I’m never sure if I have enough time to get them all chopped up and gutted for the pies, but I think this year I set a new record!” her mom said. “You didn’t buy one of those premade crusts did you? You know I’ll make my own. Your father won’t eat it unless it’s mine.”

Michelle reminded herself to not sigh and barely turned before rolling her eyes. “Of course I didn’t buy a shell. I’ll get out the flour for you now. What else do you need? Is it an egg? Butter? I know you’ve shown me dozens of times how to make your shell, but it just never works for me.”

“You and your sister. Always taking shortcuts. I don’t know who raised you,” her mom sighs at her. She turns to see her rolling her eyes. “You would probably be using canned pumpkin too!”

“Well, you will be happy to know Marie is bringing her homemade cranberry sauce then,” MIchelle rallies. 

“I take that back. There’s nothing wrong with short cuts now and then. In fact, some things should be a short cut,” her mom said decisively.

Marie's homemade cranberry sauce is more like cranberry soup. She means well. And it really does taste good. Sort of good. As in, once a year is good. And, in small portions once a year is good. It is a most unusual shade of bright burgundy red with whole cranberries floating in it. It also has random other fruits that she will toss in if she thinks they sound good at the time. One year it was maraschino cherries. One year it was orange slices. Another year it was raisins. No one ever knew what to expect in their soup. No, cranberry sauce. 

“Don’t worry, mom. I also bought a can of the store cranberry sauce to slide onto the table when no one is looking for you and dad,” Michelle said. “Just remind me to put it on the table at the same time as the pickles, black olives, and green olives tray. Marie will be so distracted with her olives that she won’t notice the tube of cranberry sauce sliding onto the table beside you.”

“You better get started on that sack of potatoes. They aren’t going to peel themselves, you know,” her mom said.

The ten pound bag of potatoes sat between them on the island. It may as well have been a cobra coiled there for all the appeal it had for Michelle. “Do you think anyone would notice if I made a box of instant mashed potatoes? How about a nice rice pilaf? Or I heard that the new trend is macaroni and cheese served with turkey for the holidays. What do you think? I think I have a nice box of Kraft macaroni and cheese around here somewhere…”

“Just start peeling and quit your whining. Store bought pumpkins. Store bought pie crusts. What is it with you these days? There’s plenty of time to do things right. Slow down. All good things come to those who wait. Start peeling those potatoes. The pumpkin is almost done, then I will get the crust in the oven and help you with the potatoes,” her mom said.

“I can’t believe you talked Marie into roasting the turkey this year,” Michelle said as she sat down on a stool at the island. There was a pile of potato peels building up under her wrists. She plunked another white potato into the large pot next to her. “After last year’s disaster of the uncooked bird, I didn’t think she would ever attempt to roast one again!”

“You know your sister, she’s never been a quitter,” her mom said. “I told her that she didn’t need to stuff it this year, so it should cook a little faster. It might be drier, but it will cook faster. And, that just because the bird needs to reach 165 degrees, that doesn’t mean you cook it at 165 degrees.”

At that they both rolled their eyes at the memory. 

Ella popped into the room at that moment, “It’s starting to smell delicious in here! Is that pumpkin pie I smell?”

“Perfect timing! There’s another potato peeler in the drawer, come help me peel this mountain of potatoes,” Michelle said to her daughter. After a little eye rolling, she rolled up her sleeves and joined her mom at the island. 

“I would have stayed upstairs if I knew I was going to get recruited to work,” Ella muttered. “Grandma, can’t I just help you with the sweet potatoes or something?”

“Sure dear, would you like to add the brown sugar and the butter?” Michelle’s mom always indulged her granddaughter. “Then can you slice the corn off the cobs for me? Be careful with that knife; it’s sharp.”

“I’ve got it Grandma, I’ve been allowed to use forks and knives for many years now,” Ella rolled her eyes in her mom’s direction, thinking that her grandmother wouldn’t see her. “I’ve had plenty of time to practice. I’m practically a grown up now. I’m sixteen!”

“You’re still two years away from being able to vote. Five years away from legally drinking. And never too old to be put in time out for sassing your grandmother,” Michelle said. “You sliced your finger pretty badly just last month cutting watermelon, so don’t be bragging. And be careful! We have plenty of time for you to be careful.”

****

“This was a wonderful meal you ladies prepared for us today,” Michelle’s dad said from the head of the table. “Everything was perfect from the turkey, to the gravy, to the lumpy mashed potatoes.”

Marie said, “Even my cranberry sauce was a hit this year! There’s hardly any left at all!”

Ella was scraping the last few crumbs of pumpkin pie from her plate with her fork. “This was probably the best pumpkin pie you ever made, Grandma.”

“Mom, the stuffing was especially good this year, did you do something different? I am pretty sure you always use the same recipe...the white bread, the butter, onions, celery...I was right there when you made it...why does everything always taste so good when you make it? You just have the magic touch!” Michelle said.

Her mom smiled and said, “The trick is to use plenty of thyme.”  

*************************************************************************

...and on a different train of thought, there is the original posted story

Plenty of Time

"We have plenty of time," I said to my husband's backside. He was standing on a ladder with a fistful of green, black, red, yellow, and white wires that were dangling from the ceiling fan. His sweat drenched green t-shirt clung to his back and he wobbled a bit on the second step. He glanced down at me, "What were the doctor's words exactly?" 

“Since I’m not having any contractions we have plenty of time. You have time to finish,” my hands were rubbing the enormous watermelon that used to be my belly. 

I thought I’d wet my pants when I was emptying out the dryer. But it didn’t feel like I had to use the bathroom….I just appeared to be... leaking. I called a friend. She told me that she thought it was my water breaking and to call the doctor. I was relieved to find out it was just my water breaking and not my bladder failing. On TV and in movies the water breaking is always so dramatic; mine was so anticlimactic. But then again, we still had the hour drive to the hospital to get through, so maybe this was a good thing. 

“Is your mom here?” he grunted, he was still fiddling with the wires. Even though it was October, we’d had a second wave of summer heat. “I might need to jump in the shower before we go.”

“Mom is downstairs with Amelia. They are working on a puzzle together. Just come down when you’re ready,” I said and headed back down to the living room. My mom had been glued to my side since the false labor three days ago. She was now here in plenty of time to watch our three year old daughter when it was time. 

The three of us had spent the day at the mall picking out curtains for the nursery. We had been in our new home for only three months and the paint was still drying. We always thought we had plenty of time to finish any new project we started, but everything always took longer than we anticipated. 

Amelia’s blond head and my mom’s grey haired head were nearly touching over the coffee table in the living room. They were sorting through the 24 pieces that made up a picture of Nala and Simba in Pride Rock. I crossed over to sit down and help when my abdomen tightened like a vice and....

WHOOOOOOSH!!!!

The floodgates opened up. The dam had burst. No more trickle. No doubt about it. My water had broken.

I was in labor. The contractions started. We needed to leave. Now. 

“Hon, I need to stop at school to drop off my sub plans on the way to the hospital. Do you think this will be okay?” my husband called down from upstairs. 

“Oh sure,” I hollar up, “You have plenty of time if we leave RIGHT NOW!” 

My mom was using a bath towel to clean up the puddle on the hardwood floor. Amelia asked me if I had an accident.

My husband walked down the stairs carrying my overnight bag, the diaper bag, and a pillow. He took one look at me and dropped everything. “What happened?”

I am standing near the front door at this time, holding on to the door knob and breathing. One breath in, one breath out, two breath in, two breath out, three breath in, three breath out, all the way up to five and then back again to one until the contraction stops. 

“How far apart are the contractions?” he asks. “Never mind, I’ll load the car. You can’t sit in the car like that. Can you get changed?”

I give him a withering look. He is worried about how I look? Or is he worried about his car? Is he kidding me right now? 

My mom offers helpfully, “Actually dear, you might be more comfortable in dry clothes? Can I go get something for you?”

And so there I find myself with my mom in the small, cramped half bathroom. I am half naked, the size of a baby elephant with a watermelon attached to my torso, and trying to peel wet shorts and underwear down my legs. By the time I was in dry pants and ready to leave, my husband had found an old shower curtain for me to sit on in the car. “Just in case,” he said, “There is any more water in there to come out.”

We kissed Amelia and promised to bring her new baby sister home to her soon. I kissed my mom and promised to call her with news.

“So do you think we still have time to drop off those sub plans?” he asked me.

The hospital was an hour away from our house. The contractions were now coming about three to five minutes apart. Each and every time I had a contraction, more and more water gushed out. (It was a good thing my husband had decided to put the shower curtain down afterall!) The darkened roads were thankfully deserted at this time of night, but even still, I didn’t think we had a second to spare. 

“You...may…<blow> needtojust...call...those…<blow> plansinlater,” I panted. “Drive, just drive.”

My eyes squeezed shut. Just breathe. Breathe and relax. Just breathe. Blow and blow and blow and breathe. Blow and blow and blow and breathe. “How close…<blow> howclose how close are...are we?” I gasped out. “We’re <blow> never...never going...going...to makeit!”

“I’m just getting on the highway now,” my husband said. “I can make up time here.”

“GO! JUST GO! <blow> And help...helpme...helpme…<blow> me breathe. I’m getting dizzy,” I was starting to think I was going to have this baby in the car, on the side of the road. How did I go from no contractions to full on active labor in such a short time? 

The contractions were coming one on top of the other and my husband was driving and breathing with me through them all. At one point, he tried to hold my hand and I screamed, “At this speed, you need two hands on the wheel! Drive you idiot! DRIVE!”

Our first daughter had been born in a local hospital only minutes from where we had been living. Now with our new home I had a new doctor and a new hospital. My husband had been concerned during the entire pregnancy that we wouldn’t get there in time once I went into labor. I promised him that we would get there in plenty of time. The first time around took forever; I was in labor for fourteen hours! I was positive that we would have plenty of time to get to the hospital for me to have a baby. I never imagined that my promise would force him to have to drive like a maniac to get us there. 

We peeled into the front circle of the hospital entrance and skidded to a halt. My husband had already jumped out of the car and was opening my door when a security guard approached the car. 

“Excuse me sir, but you can’t park here…” the guard started to say. “Unless you need me to get you a wheelchair, stay right there! I’ll be right back!” 

The guard was back with the wheelchair in seconds, he held the door for us and directed us to the main bank of elevators that would gain us the fastest access to the labor/delivery floor. 

We zipped across the shiny linoleum foyer. I think the wheelchair may have popped a wheelie or at least gone airborne on a turn, but I was too busy trying to breathe through the contractions at this point. “What floor do we need?” he asked. “Can you press the button for me? My hands are pretty full.” He decided after a quick glance at my face that now wasn’t the time to joke. I panted. I blew. My husband was trying to distract me and himself by being funny; it was working, but I just couldn’t show my appreciation. I was too busy trying to breathe. 

A nurse in pink scrubs stopped us at the entrance to labor/delivery to verify that I was actually in labor. “We have three other moms in labor right now, so we need to make sure you are...OH! You are all set. I just need you to sign this form... never mind. Just GO! GO! Go through the doors and on the left. A nurse will be right in.” 

Within fifteen minutes of leaving the car at the front entrance Rose was lying on my chest and looking into my eyes. All eight pounds, eight ounces of beautiful, healthy perfection. We didn’t have time to park the car, or grab the bags, or even bring the camera, but we made it to the hospital. 

We had plenty of time.