Test Tube Subject

Sometimes as a mother, I feel like I’m in some scientific test tube, being examined as a subject under pressure, much like astronauts or fighter pilots are tested and observed under extreme conditions to find out if they have enough fortitude to withstand the operations of jet engines or the conditions of shuttle flight in outer space. I feel like the little man from “The Right Stuff,” placed into a small, dark, capsule-like observation room, sitting in what looks like a dental chair, stiffly trying to will himself to read some kind of magazine or newspaper with all kinds of probes and suction cups fastened to his forehead and torso; steam engines and whistles begin to sound off around him, and the window outside begins to flood with water. He squirms, sweats, and jumps occasionally, but he strives to collect himself and appear cool and composed, while a sour-looking nurse peers through the observation porthole and peevishly jots something down on her clipboard. He almost manages peaceful composure, until a succession of fog-horn blasts thunder through the capsule, and he is found jumping wildly toward the hatch, madly screaming for someone to let him out.

I am that astronaut trainee some days. I know I’m being observed by that same tight-lipped nurse as I cautiously plod my way toward the wash machine, heavy-laden laundry basket of dirty clothes in hand, tiptoeing over a myriad of toys, doll clothes, scattered puzzle pieces, and sharp-cornered objects strewn haphazardly across the floor or when I’m cringing at the ear-piercing wails of my preschooler who is sitting in time-out as I’m trying to calmly change the bed sheets or when I’m rattled by the whirring of the electric Hello Kitty toothbrush Esther’s playing with as I’m struggling to throw her hair into some kind of makeshift ponytail until big sister gets off the toilet before I have a chance to wipe her bottom and knocks the basket of tub toys – CRASH! – into the once-clean tub or when a fierce battle ensues over some favored trinket in the car on the way to the grocery store or when I make a mad dash to the bathroom as Esther, waiting impatiently on her little potty chair, teasingly casts a rubber ball or some other object into the toilet. Sometimes a combination of all of these experiments is the test I’m undergoing, a test to see how long I can maintain composure under stressful, mind-numbing madness before I out and out lose it.

Some days I pass the test. I remain in the chair, so to speak, calmly reading my book as the world comes unglued about me. Other days, I lose my temper and run for the hatch, half expecting the irascible nurse to come around the corner with a big red FAILED written across her clipboard.

Either way, however, I’m soberly stunned when no nurse emerges to tell me that the test is over and that I can go home now, and I discover for the umpteenth time that this is not just any old test; it is life, and it is ongoing, permanent; it will never end. Yes, this subsection of life's test will probably get easier, and I will probably even pass it after multiple retries and a few gray hairs, but there will be newer and possibly harder sections of the test to look forward to, and I will hopefully welcome them by that time as a seasoned pilot, sometimes with steady surety, other times with ragged exhaustion, praying for grace or Cliff Notes or at the very least some kind of cheat sheet.