I Hate You, Mommy!

"I hate you, Mommy."

The words cut to my heart. What had I done to provoke the wrath of my four-year old son?

Last winter we moved into our new house. Everything cost more than estimated. Instead of having $5000 in the bank to finish the basement and decorate the house, our statement showed $50.

My husband, Keith, is working in Delta, 100 miles away. He gets up at 5 a.m. to drive to work and doesn't get home until after eight at night.

I'm at home with two pre-schoolers and not enough water to do a load of laundry. Why?

Our dream house is built on a hill overlooking the Tanana Valley. On a clear, dark night we can see the Alaska Range and the thousands of twinkling lights that is Fairbanks.

When the well driller dug to the depth of our budget, he delivers the bad news, "A quart a minute."

I stare.

"A quart a minute is all I'm getting. That's not even considered getting water. Shall I pound deeper?"

I cringe. The sound of a pounding well-drilling platform within twenty feet of the house is a little more than I can take. The alternative is no water.

"Cap it off here," Keith says.

Now the well driller stares.

"I can't afford to go any deeper. We are already $1000 over our budget," Keith answers the stare.

"But, but..." says the well driller.

"We'll manage with what we have now," Keith interrupts.

There's no point in arguing the matter. Budget is budget. Keith is already overwhelmed with the idea of having a thirty-year mortgage. He's been accustomed to pay as you go. The construction loan interest rate is outrageous. We need to finish this house and get the loan converted to the Alaska Housing loan.

Keith is resourceful. He installs a tank right next to the well. He'll pump the water that accumulates in the well casing into the tank. This method requires a submersible pump inside the well casing to pump the water to the tank. A second pump is inside the garage to pump the water into the house. Some of our neighbors drilled more than one well and got nothing. The solution is to install a water tank and pay to have it delivered or haul it yourself.

Every night Keith sits in the well house while the water pumps into the tank. As soon as he hears the submersible drawing air, he switches off the pump. That's my water allotment until tomorrow.

Sometimes I can squeeze out one washer load from my ration. Most of the time, I have more laundry than water.

I've used my last drop bathing my sons and doing the dishes. I hear the accusing sound of pumped air. I rush to the garage to unplug the pump. The last thing I need now is to burn out the motor.

I must go to the Laundromat. I don't mind that much. The worst part is loading all the clothes and paraphernalia into the car. While I'm trying to make sure I don't forget anything, I keep one eye on the boys playing in the yard.

Spring breakup has drenched the newly excavated dirt. The area around my dream house is a mud pit.

"Boys, let's go," I yell. They are excited to go downtown because I promised a trip to McDonald's after we finished the laundry.

My two spitfires come running up to the car.

"Sunny, how could you?"  I stare in disbelief.

He is covered with mud from his shoe to his waist.

"Now what do I do?" I wonder. I can't very well put him in the car like this. I have no water to wash him and every pair of jeans he owns is in the laundry.

I help Sunny remove his muddy jeans and shoe. I make him wash out the mud in a puddle of water that has collected in a low spot of the concrete pad in front of the garage doors.

In tears and frustration, I scrub the mud off his tennis shoes.

Sunny cries, "I hate you, Mommy."

"Mom, Mom, did you hear what I said?"

"What, honey?" I reply to my six-foot-two son standing by the refrigerator helping himself to a glass of apple juice.

"I love you, Mommy."