Not Ready for Mom Jeans (32 page)

Today was a pretty good day, all around. First, this morning Keri showed me how to get around Signature Events’ firewall so we could surf on YouTube. It’s quite simple, actually. Then, I got an e-mail saying our company’s annual retreat had been postponed. Yes! No lame icebreaker activities this weekend. Then, Jake called to tell me he thinks he’s finally overcome his nasal spray addiction since he went to the drugstore and didn’t have an urge
at all
to buy any.

My mom e-mailed me and said she’s feeling a bit better.

Finally, after work, I stopped at Trader Joe’s.

Trader Joe’s and I have a codependent relationship, much like Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston did. I’m willing to overlook its flaws since it usually treats me so, so good. I don’t mind patiently standing behind people who must read every ingredient in a product
before
standing still for five minutes and pondering the purchase. I can ignore the onset of claustrophobia the minute I set food in the store.

I do all of this for the frozen enchiladas, veggie meatballs, and butternut squash soup. And besides, it’s not like it’s frustrating every time I go to Trader Joe’s. And Trader Joe’s is almost
always
a good partner, as long as I don’t make it mad and mouth off, and then I deserve my punishment.

And even after it kicks my ass, I usually forget within a day or two. (“Trader Joe’s didn’t mean to hurt me. It’s not Trader Joe’s fault. It’s just all the stress at work.”)

“You’ve so joined the cult,” Julie said to me when I phoned her tonight.

“Cult?” I said to her as I changed Sara’s diaper.

“You’re one of those suburban people. You are obsessed with Target and Trader Joe’s and you go to bed early every night,” she said proudly, as though she’d just discovered the key to unlocking cold fusion.

“That’s called having a child,” I said impatiently. “And don’t talk shit about Target or Trader Joe’s. They rule.” I put Sara on the floor and she headed straight for an errant dry-erase board marker on the ground.

“OK, sorry. Next are you going to ask me to join your Coupon Club?” Julie said.

“Very funny, smart-ass.”

“You’ve so drank the Kool-Aid!” Julie said.

“Whatever, listen. I wanted to talk to you about something.” I bent down and pulled the marker out of Sara’s chubby fingers and handed her a pacificer instead.

“OK?” Julie sounded suspicious.

“It’s no big deal, and you can say no if you want, but a blog reader just e-mailed me the other day. She’s been a reader forever and she and I have e-mailed a few times before. Anyway, she’s been reading all of your Internet dating recaps. She said her brother just moved into town and doesn’t really know anyone and was wondering if you’d be interested in another blind date?” Sara, clearly over the pacificer, started to wail. I bent down and picked her up and let her suck on the cordless phone antenna next to my ear.

“Wait, so one of your readers, who could be an AXE MURDERER, wants to set me up with her possibly molester brother?”

“Basically.” I shrugged as I felt Sara’s drool running down my cheek. “Just think of it this way: can’t be worse than the others, right?”

There was a pause before she said, “Guess so. I’m in.”

Sunday, September 21

I’ve read there are eighteen levels of hell, according to some Chinese legends. Helping Julie out with her romantic life probably falls somewhere in one of the outer, not-so-bad, reserved-for-kleptos-and-petty-thieves levels.

Helping Reese out these days?

Climbing-trees-with-razor-blade-branches, being-forced-to-watch-that-Spice-Girls-movie level of hell.

This morning, I had one foot in my apartment, one foot in the hallway, and Sara balanced delicately on my hip when an overwhelming sense of guilt washed over my body. I was ready to drop Sara off at my in-laws’ and head to the salon for a much-needed massage. I stared down at her cherubic face and she smiled at me, drool running down her chin.

I knew what I should do.

Instead of dropping Sara off at the Grandalskis’, I drove over to Reese’s house. She answered the door, dressed in a velour tracksuit, looking totally confused.

“Clare, hi. Did I forget a lunch date or something?”

“WAAAAAAAAAAA!” Grace screamed behind her. Reese turned around and picked her up.

“Nope, just wanted to drop by and tell you not to be late for your massage.” I pushed open her door and stood in her foyer.

“What?” she said.

“Your massage. You’d better hurry. Can’t be late,” I said, and gave her a nudge toward the door. “Give me the kid.” I motioned toward Grace.

“I have to study for an exam!” Reese said.

“You can study later.”

“I can’t, who’ll, I’m busy, I—”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it before. Bye-bye,” I said, and gave her another shove.

“God, Clare, you don’t know how much this means—” She started to walk out the door.

“Reese,” I said.

“Yes?” She turned back.

I pointed to Grace, still on her hip.

“Oh, right.” She put Grace down and crouched down next to her. “Mommy has to leave for a little bit. I’ll be back soon.”

“NOOOOOO!” Grace screamed, and clutched Reese’s leg.

“I can’t leave her like this,” she said.

“Sure you can. I’m a mom now, too, remember? We’ll be great,” I said.

After ten more minutes of haggling, Reese finally left. Immediately, Grace started screaming, but I was prepared.

“Grace, do you want to watch a video?” I waved the tape in front of her.

She stopped wailing and stared at me, transfixed. She nodded.

“That’s what I thought. Your mommy usually doesn’t let you watch videos, does she?” Grace shook her head.

I popped the tape in the VCR and Grace settled in front of it.

There. That was easy,
I thought. The only challenge was I had to listen to
Baby Tunes
for the next two hours, complete with songs like “Going Potty Is Fun” and “I Can Put My Clothes On by Myself.” I wondered if there was a
Husband Songs
tape I could pick up for Jake. Like “I Always Put My Dishes in the Dishwasher and Not the Sink” or “Replacing the Toilet Paper Roll Is Easy!”

With Grace entertained, Brendan upstairs in his crib for his morning nap, and Sara bouncing in the Jumperoo, I settled down on Reese’s huge couch with a gardening magazine. Just as I was engrossed in an article about bonsai gardens, Brendan woke up from his nap.

“Grace, I’m going to go get your brother, OK? I’ll be right back.” Grace didn’t even look away from “Sharing Is Good.”

I walked into Brendan’s room and scooped him up from his gorgeous antique crib. His nursery has to be the most amazing baby’s room I’ve ever seen. Reese commissioned an artist to do a replica of the drawings from the book
Guess How Much I Love You.
I started to walk out of the room when I caught sight of a plaque on the wall. It read, “First We Found Each Other … Then There Was You.” Adorable. Perfect for a baby’s room. Not so perfect for a couple who are separated.

Even though I felt slightly guilty for doing so, I held Brendan in my arms and crept into Reese’s bedroom. Everything looked perfect, right out of the Pottery Barn catalog. I opened the closet and stared at the empty shelves, open, gaping wounds of Reese’s former life.

Why are all of our choices black or white?

Why can’t we have it all?

Brendan began to fuss, as though he sensed the overwhelming sadness in the room, and I closed the closet door and headed downstairs.

Halfway down the stairs, I realized everything was too quiet. I raced down the stairs with Brendan in my arms and walked into the family room. I found Grace, standing in front of Sara, coloring my daughter’s face with a blue permanent marker.

“GRACE!” I screamed.

She froze, hand poised midair.

“What are you doing? Oh no! Shit!” I said. Grace started to cry. I put Brendan down in his swing and rushed over to Sara. “Oh God, you look like a blueberry,” I said to her.

She grinned at me, straightened her legs, banged her hands down on the Jumperoo tray, and said, “GAH!”

“Grace, I know you didn’t mean to do anything bad, but you can’t draw on people,” I said calmly to Grace. She looked me in the eye and continued to wail. Brendan decided to join in.

I looked at the clock. Only a half hour had gone by.

My blue-faced child took note of other kids wailing and her bottom lip started to curl. Recognizing the signs of a Sara scream-a-thon, I picked her up. “No, it’s OK! Everyone’s happy!” I turned to Grace. “Let’s tell Sara how happy we are! Yay!”

That only made Grace scream “I WANT MY MOMMY!” as loud as her little lungs could muster.

And so it went on. For another hour and a half.

I finally got all of them quiet. Sara finally passed out from exhaustion, Grace became engrossed in an episode of
The Sopranos
(that is one secret that will die with me), and Brendan fell asleep after I fed him.

All was well in kidland when Reese came home, a renewed glow to her face.

“Clare, you have no idea how amazing the massage was.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “It felt so good. I feel like I’m ready for a nap.”

“I’m glad. You deserve it,” I said lightly, trying to appear as though the past two hours had been the easiest of my life.

“The kids didn’t act like beasts, did they?”

“No, not at all. Piece of cake,” I lied.

“Why is Sara’s face blue?” Reese said, looking alarmed.

“Oh, just, um … part of a game we played,” I said.

Reese stared at me, not buying a word of it.

“Mommy,” Grace whispered, tugging at Reese’s jacket.

“Just a second, honey. Is she OK?” Reese said.

“She’s fine. I told you, just a fun game.”

“Mommy,” Grace said again, slightly more insistent.

“Hold on, darling,” Reese said. “Clare, tell me what happened.”

“It’s no big deal. It was nothing—”

“MOMMY!” Grace yelled.

“WHAT?” Reese said to her.

“That lady said a bad word,” Grace said as she pointed to me.

“Time to go!” I said, and ran out the door.

Tuesday, September 23

I took a break this morning from proofing Logan’s party invitation to surf the Internet. I logged onto Facebook, which Keri showed me how to access. (She’s coming in so handy these days.) I pulled up Mark’s profile, as I’ve been wont to do these days, as it seems to be the only way to keep tabs on his relationship with Casey. In the past week, I’ve learned that they’ve gone to numerous baseball games together and eaten Chinese food at some point and both love the movie
Wedding Crashers.
His status is still listed as “In A Relationship” and photos of her are still in his album, so I’m guessing they’re still together.

Of course, it would seem to be much easier to simply say, “Hey, Mark, are you and Casey still dating?”

But I did that and his answer was, “Stop being such a freak.”

So, Facebook is my only method of sleuthing. I also snuck over to Sam’s profile and laughed a little at all of the pictures of her and her friends holding red cups. She has 871 friends. Facebook is pretty much the only way we all stay in touch with each other’s lives. They read my blog, I read their profiles. It screams,
Dysfunctional
, but hey, at least I’m interested.