Not Ready for Mom Jeans (44 page)

My fundraiser with Elise is in less than two weeks. I still have eight thousand details to figure out. Send out the invitations, which are cream linen with pink embossing, arrange the seating, finalize the centerpieces—gorgeous white hydrangeas, pink peonies, and sprigs of mint and stephanotis—take last-minute RSVPs (
why
do people forget to RSVP until the day before?), and help Elise figure out her speech, which I’m assuming she wants to be more than just,
Thanks for coming. Give us more money.

We went back and forth about the location and finally decided to have it at the golf club.

Keri’s been working her ass off to help me with the event, despite continuing hangovers. I’ve learned not to ask for too much before 10:00 a.m., after she’s had her breakfast croissant and at least two large cups of coffee.

I took a break from working this afternoon to pump Julie for any information about Trevor, but she’s still as locked as a chastity belt.

All I got off her was: “Movie. Drinks in Old Town. Maybe. I said maybe. Shut the hell up about meeting him, OK?”

Wednesday, December 10

So stressed. So, so stressed.

I’m freaking out about this fundraiser. I usually panic a little before any event, but this one is different. It’s so much more important. It’s for my mom and I don’t want to let Elise down.

It doesn’t help that Mule Face has instituted the return of All Things Christmas today. She, once again, blasted Christmas carols from her office all day long. I think I heard “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” seventeen times.

It did provide a good distraction for me, though. After I heard “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” four times, I began to wonder—just who are these obnoxious carolers wishing me a happy holiday? They’re pretending like they’re being all nice by wishing me a Merry Christmas, but in reality, they’re just in it for the “figgy pudding.” They inasmuch say so. Not to mention they become outright demanding by insisting they won’t leave until they get said pudding.

I would be all:
What is figgy pudding anyway? I promise, you don’t want any. Seriously. Just leave. Your singing is annoying me. No? You won’t leave? OK, then. How ’bout we discuss this downtown? Yeah, yeah. Tell it to the judge.

And then the judge will assess them to be flight risks and remand them without bail.

Also? I may have watched too many
Law & Order
reruns lately.

Nonetheless, this song now very much disturbs me.

Or maybe the stress has just eaten into my brain and rotted away the portion for understanding creative expression.

Friday, December 12

When I got home yesterday after work, Jake listened to me vent about Mule Face’s Christmas music, the traffic on the way home, the stupid blue holiday lights Psycho Bitch put around her evergreen, the guest list for my fundraiser, and the jewelry store commercial I keep seeing.

He nodded the entire time, rubbing my back and holding my hand as I ranted and raved about the McDonald’s workers only putting two Splendas into my coffee instead of three. When I finished, I looked expectantly at him, sure he would offer some great philosophical view on
why
everything sucked today.

He looked thoughtfully at me and said, “Guess what I bought today?”

I wanted to immediately freak out and ask if he’d heard anything I’d just said, but I took a deep breath and asked, “What?”

“This new, really awesome ice scraper for my car.”

I stared at him for ten long seconds.

“What?” he said, confused.

“Seriously?” I said slowly.

“What?” he said again.

I opened my mouth to fillet him about his lack of interest in my superimportant topics but quickly realized I didn’t have the strength and said instead, “That’s great. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”

Sunday, December 14

Jake and I aren’t generally the gambling sort of people. We don’t obsessively play the lottery, we stick to video poker while in Vegas, and I never let more than two days go by without cleaning the litter box.

So that’s why it was completely out of character for us to entrust our child to the care of Sam today.

Jake and I still needed to buy about 99 percent of our Christmas gifts, since I haven’t had any time lately thanks to work-Reese-Julie-work-work-Elise-blah-blah-blah. Which led Jake and me to be just desperate enough for a sitter that we decided to use my sister. Of course, we were only a half mile away the entire time and called about every fifteen minutes.

But it was OK.

Sara’s alive. And not visibly injured in any way.

And get this—Sam actually told Sara that she missed her.

Of course, this was before we left and the Gatorade incident happened. Sam brought a bottle of red Gatorade with her. She set it down on an end table while she took Sara’s sippy cup in the kitchen to fill with juice.

Just as Sam returned, sippy cup in hand, she saw Sara pull herself up on the end table, eye the Gatorade bottle, pick it up, hold it in the air as though to take a sip, and dump the entire contents of the bottle all over herself.

Deep red liquid ran down all over Sara’s head, her clothes, and our carpet.

I’m sure the scream of, “NOOOOOOOOOO!” was heard by some Alaskans.

Although there’s a faint pink stain still lingering on our carpet, the comedic value of the story outweighs the bottle of carpet cleaner it will cost me.

Not to mention, apparently Psycho Bitch / Dog Poop Neighbor Woman came over and accosted Sam about borrowing some sugar. Apparently, she thought we stole her baking supplies while she was at work.

Tuesday, December 16

My mom made me chicken noodle soup every time I stayed home sick from school when I was little. It was the kind without any real chicken, just some broth and a few shoestring noodles and some parsley. She served it to me on a tray in bed and sat on the edge while I happily slurped away at the hot liquid. She’d ask, “Is it too hot?” and I’d shake my head no and hug Bugle Bear, my favorite worn stuffed animal, to my chest.

She used to let me stay home from school even on days when she doubted that I was really sick. My favorite part was when I got to go back to sleep for a few hours in the morning. Then, I’d wake up and watch television and my mom would make me some soup. The worst part was when the clock inched closer to 3:00 p.m., the time I would’ve gotten out of school, the time when I’d turn into just every other kid, not a kid lying in her pajamas while everyone else was sitting behind a desk, wearing a school uniform.

When I had the stomach flu, my mom would put a garbage can or an old stove pot next to my bed on my desk chair. She’d bring in a cool washcloth and run it over my head. She’d stay in my room until I fell asleep.

She stayed home from work and took care of me every time I was sick from birth until age eighteen, when I went off to college and the days I felt sick were for an entirely different reason.

And then she became sick herself.

And there were days when I wanted to sit by her bed and make her wheat toast and tell her to eat it slowly, she didn’t know what her stomach could handle; to take tiny sips of ginger ale; not to push it. But she waved me off and told me to go back to work; she told me she was fine.

So, I did. And now, she really is going to be fine. This is her last round of treatments. She’s almost done.

And she’s going to be more than fine. I don’t need to make her chicken noodle soup, because she’s not going to be sick anymore. I don’t need to feel guilty about not being there every day to help her, because she’s going to be strong again. I don’t need to cry every time I look at Sara, since she’s going to know, love, and bond with her grandmother for years to come.

I don’t need to ask why, since it doesn’t really matter anyway. All I need to do is say thanks.

With all of this gratitude, I’m reminded that when I die my résumé isn’t going to be listed in my obituary. It will be my daughter’s name, her existence, that will be worthy enough to include in those few, short lines.

Friday, December 19

I know I’ve asked for a lot of favors lately and my mom’s health is the best Christmas gift ever, but could I eke out just one more favor?

Please?

Because today is the day.

Today is my fundraiser with Elise.

I couldn’t sleep much at all last night. I kept having weird dreams about forgetting to turn in my assignments for high school gym class because I was on maternity leave. I’d wake up in a panic because I missed my tennis exam, only to realize (a) I graduated from high school well over ten years ago and (b) Olivia Newton-John wasn’t my gym teacher.

I’m excited but 100 percent freaking out.

Part of me wants to fast-forward to tonight, when I’m snuggled up next to Jake in my red plaid pajama pants, sitting on the couch, wiped but totally proud of myself.

8:13 P.M.

Red plaid pants are in action.

Wiped? Yes.

Proud? Yes.

Still shocked? Yes.

I stood in front of my closet for ten minutes this morning, staring at my entire wardrobe. I’d already bought my outfit for today, but it was like my brain couldn’t yet process putting anything on, so I stared at my bridesmaid dress from Reese’s wedding for a few minutes before I forced myself to slowly start getting dressed.