WHEN DID I GO FROM BEING A PART-TIME MARKETING MANAGER to being a more-than-full-time CMO/COO/CFO who makes less than our entry-level sales staff?? It happened slowly, the same way anything does. A few more meetings here and there, a few more phone calls taken from the car during school pickup and drop-off. A few more nights where “dinner as a family” turned into me making separate meals for each kid according to their personal preferences. It was raising my hand to volunteer with the teacher who needed help organizing the Fall Ball, the coach who needed extra adults to stand around at practice and make sure we didn’t lose track of a kid. Somehow, I went from wanting my kids to be happy and succeed to “helping” with their reports and double-checking their homework for them. I went from having a partner who could help me with bath time and bedtime to becoming the only one who could do it right. The same way I went from helping Dale part-time to becoming the only person at the company who can do anything right.
SPEAKING OF DALE, HE’S CALLING AGAIN.
“AMY. Amy. What is happening, I’m about to issue an Amber Alert for you. You’re missing the midweek check-in.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, Amy, you are. It’s right now. I’m right here, at the meeting, in the conference room, checking in. And you’re not here.”
“Dale. It’s my day off,” I say in a voice that’s as relaxed as I feel.
“It’s THURSDAY, Amy. It’s nobody’s day off! There are no days off! Not when you have a champion’s mentality, and I’m beginning to think you don’t have that mentality.”
“Dale,” I say, activating my Mom Mode. “Dale,” I say again, slowing my voice and enunciating clearly, the way I did when Jane used to throw tantrums so violent I was sure she would transform into the Incredible Hulk at any moment. “I am a part-time employee. This means that I am contracted with you to work part-time. You’ve certainly enjoyed my overworking for the past few years, and I understand that this may be confusing for you, but I will now only be working part-time. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Dale is choking on his words when I end the call.
I fold the paper neatly and place my dishes in the dishwasher. The day stretches ahead of me, filled with possibility and wonder.
I can do anything I want with this time. Anything at all.
And even though I’ve just eaten a full farmer’s breakfast, even though I can still feel the effects of last night behind my eyes, I want to go out to lunch.
* * *
To: McKinley Mom Squad
From: Gwendolyn James
CC: Principal Burr
Subject: Last Night
Hi Mamas,
Many thanks to those of you who maintained your commitment to excellence in education by fulfilling and exceeding your obligations to the McKinley Mom Squad. We are, of course, only as strong as our weakest link, and some weaknesses presented themselves last night.
As your leader, I feel responsible for the traumatic outburst we experienced last night and want to apologize to everyone who was affected. Amy is a valued member of the Mom Squad and I hope that Amy takes the time to get the mental health support she needs.
Our thoughts and prayers are with her during this stressful time. Marriage and Motherhood are not for the faint of heart, and we hope she and her family come through their troubles stronger than ever. Amy remains a valued member of the Mom Squad, and we are here to support her with open arms. When she’s ready, we will accept her apology and move forward, together.
In Love and Light and Style,
G
“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” —Sun Tzu
Take my eCourse: Mom Enough: Making the Most of Your 18 Years with Your Precious Children
To: Gwendolyn James; McKinley Mom Squad
From: Amy Mitchell
CC: Principal Burr
Subject: RE: Last Night
Thanks, G.
The well wishes are appreciated. A couple points of clarification:
I quit, so please unsubscribe me from these emails.
Not sorry.
Love and Light,
Amy
To: Amy Mitchell; Gwendolyn James; McKinley Mom Squad
From: Stacy Gordon
CC: Principal Burr
Subject: RE: RE: Last Night
She’s my hero.
To: Amy Mitchell; Gwendolyn James; McKinley Mom Squad
From: Stacy Gordon
CC: Principal Burr
Subject: RECALL NOTICE: RE: RE: Last Night
STACY GORDON WOULD LIKE TO RECALL THE MESSAGE: RE: RE: Last Night
To: Amy Mitchell; Gwendolyn James; McKinley Mom Squad
From: Stacy Gordon
CC: Principal Burr
Subject: RE: RE: Last Night
Sorry, everyone! Kid got my phone, not sure what she sent!
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Stacy Gordon
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Last Night
You’re my hero.
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Rose A.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Last Night
Oh my GOD, Amy. Fuck yes.
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Rose A.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Last Night
Take me with you.
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Jenn P.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Last Night
If you start a cult, I’m totally joining.
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Jenn P.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Last Night
PS—I have to ignore you in public and unfriend you on Facebook, though. Gwendolyn scares the shit out of me, and we have three more years at McKinley together.
To: Gwendolyn James; Amy Mitchell
From: Taryn O.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Last Night
Gwendolyn and Amy,
I want to take a moment to let you know that I see and validate your individual struggles and frustrations. Our roles as mothers and community leaders bring challenges and opportunities. If the two of you are interested in my conflict resolution services, please let me know. I’m also available for individual life coaching sessions.
Sincerely,
Taryn (Fern’s mom)
19
Carla
Jesus Christ, are all married moms like hostages with minivans or is it just Amy and Kiki?
Amy texted me at 10:30 AM asking if I’d like to meet for lunch. I haven’t even had breakfast yet because the Taco Bell near our house doesn’t open until 11:00. Kiki replied in under ten seconds.
KIKI: Are we allowed to do that??
KIKI: Let me ask Kent.
KIKI: He’s in a meeting until noon.
KIKI: Can I get back to you?
ME: I asked Kent. He said it’s okay.;)
KIKI: Carla, you asked Kenton?
KIKI: How did you get his number?
ME: We go to the same AA meeting.
. . .
ME: Kiki, it’s LUNCH, not an 8-day sex cruise.
KIKI: :( Sorry. I don’t have a sitter.
KIKI IS SHOCKED TO SEE ME ON HER FRONT STEPS. AND EVEN MORE shocked to see Claudia. Most people are shocked when they see Claudia. She’s like nine feet tall and looks like she was created in a lab by scientists who wanted to see what the hottest chick in the world would look like. Claudia’s our part-time receptionist and makes the rest of her money posting about diet teas on Instagram, so she’s got plenty of free time. I offered her a free facial if she’d watch Kiki’s kids for a few hours, and she said yes if I’d throw in a manicure, too. She’s savvy like that.
Kiki opens the door, and then just stands there like a mannequin.
“Get your backpack, Punky Brewster!” I yell, pushing Claudia in the front door. “You’re going to lunch!”
Kiki’s house is . . . cute. It’s cozy. It smells like oatmeal and diapers, but you can tell she cares about this place. She has framed photos of her kids on every available
surface, and a huge family portrait hanging over the fireplace. They’re all wearing coordinating denim outfits and standing in a cornfield for some reason. Kiki’s girls are sitting on the couch with a pile of library books, poor kids.
“Kids?” I say, sitting down in the middle of them like the therapists on those shows about having interventions with your family members who won’t stop hoarding cats. “This is your Auntie Claudia. She’s in charge while Mommy is gone. Listen to her and don’t tell her where Mommy keeps the valuables. She’s a klepto.”
Kiki’s children seem confused by the presence of another adult in the house, like they’re an endangered species unused to seeing another creature in their habitat. You can sense them wondering what the presence of an Instagram model means for their afternoon, and why their mother is looking for her backpack. I can see in their faces that they’re about to lose their shit, but Kiki thinks quickly, reaching into her backpack for some sugar-free, dye-free, organic fruit snacks, shaking the bag like they’re dog treats. “Who wants fruit snaaaaacks?” she calls, like a tiny, white Oprah, ripping the bag open with her teeth and pouring the jewel-colored nuggets into her palm. That does the trick: the kids descend on the fruit snacks like a pack of ravenous wolves, and we seem to be in the clear.
Kiki’s “quick getaway” takes a solid fifteen minutes, which includes Kiki narrating the entire experience for her children in a tone that implies each sentence ends in a series of exclamation marks.
“Mommy is going to show Claudia the bathroom!!!”
“Mommy is going to talk to Claudia about your snack schedule!!!”
Kiki is in the middle of showing Claudia a three-ring binder filled with step-by-step instructions for each of her children’s likes, dislikes, and allergies when I grab her from behind like a kidnapper and carry her toward the door.
“Look, Kiki. Claudia knows enough English, she can figure it out. And if she has questions, she’ll call me.”
I haul Kiki out the front door and right into my car, which I’d left idling in her driveway so we could make a quick getaway.
“Clara has real attachment issues,” Kiki says, worrying, “and the twins are . . . they’re just a handful right now. They do NOT do well with sudden change.”
“Yeah,” I say, throwing my ride into reverse and pulling into the street, “I can see.”
On the front porch, Claudia is holding the twins, Clara is hugging Claudia’s leg, and all four of them are waving like idiots. I’d stuffed Claudia’s purse with all kinds of tasty processed foods: the little snack crackers filled with neon orange cheese, fruit snacks that didn’t have even a hint of real fruit juice in them, and full-size candy bars, because YOLO. These kids are about to have the best damn day of their weird little lives.
“THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!” KIKI GIGGLES, TIPPING back her third Shirley Temple. I sniffed each one of them to make sure there was no booze. It turns out that Kiki is absolutely capable of getting drunk on life, the way our gym teacher always said we could be.
In the twenty-minute ride to the restaurant, Kiki told me her entire life story, starting with her birth during a snowstorm in North Dakota when Mom had her on the floor of their bathroom because the snow had piled up so high even an ambulance couldn’t get to their house. Because they were snowed in for so many days, her parents had lost track of when she’d been born, so the date on her birth certificate is really just a guesstimate. The only thing more boring to me than a birth story is a dream, but Kiki also had time to tell me about her dream from the night before and the night before that and the night before that. Her recurring dream is that she’s stuck in a cage, and Kent won’t let her out. I’m not a psychologist, but I’ve watched enough Dr. Phil to know that sometimes dreams are your brain trying to tell you something you already know.
Amy is on her first glass of champagne when Kiki and I arrive. She’s picked one of those fancy places where there’s a waiter whose job is just to pour your water, and it is filled with men in boring suits who have boring jobs and have no idea how boring they actually are. I have this weird thing where whenever I’m in a group of people I don’t know, I just imagine what they look like having sex. This dining room is filled with guys who keep their T-shirts on and have to be on the bottom because otherwise they’ll get winded.
Kiki’s reaction to the bread basket is to cradle the individual buns in her hands like they are kittens. She has tears in her eyes when she sees the tiny little balls of butter they come with.
“Thank you!” she cries to him, like she is a starving orphan. “This is seriously the best day of my life!” He brings two more baskets to her, and she receives each of them like it is a fucking Oscar.
THE REASON I DON’T HAVE A LOT OF MOM FRIENDS IS BECAUSE moms always want to talk about their kids. It’s like instead of the default topic of conversation being the day’s weather or your last sexual encounter, it’s just what your kids are doing on a daily basis. Amy’s kids are doing . . . a lot. They’re learning Mandarin, which is apparently a kind of Chinese? My kid can barely master English, and the only thing he’s interested in is baseball. You know what’s interesting about baseball? Absolutely nothing. It’s just a bunch of rednecks standing around in pajamas, and the games last at least six hours. I never thought I’d say this, but I am so glad he’s into baseball. Because at least it’s just baseball, and not the dozen random things that Amy’s kids are signed up for.
“No wonder you’re on the verge of mental breakdown,” I tell her. “Carting those kids around to all their shit is basically a full-time job.”
Amy nodded. “But I have to do it,” she says, sighing. “I owe it to them.”
That’s hilarious to me.
“You owe it to them? Like, you made a blood oath to kill yourself making sure they could go to absolutely every activity under the sun? You don’t owe them anything but food, safety, and love. I haven’t gone to one of Jaxon’s baseball games in four years. The last game I went to? The score was one to two. There were seventeen innings and, I swear to you, I would sooner go to Afghanistan than to another baseball game. And I don’t even think he’s noticed I’m not there. There’s like six hundred other moms cheering like they’re at a John Mayer concert every time a kid gets up to bat.”
“So, how does he get there?” Amy asks, like she’d never heard of the school activities shuttle . . . or a dad doing drop-off.
“You’re married, right?”
Amy twists her ring around her finger.
“Well, yeah . . .”
“Then where the shit is your husband and why are you doing everything?”
“He works . . .”
“You work.”
Amy downs the rest of her champagne.
“Is it hard to share Jaxon with your ex-husband?” she asks.
Ah. So here’s the real issue. I can always tell when married women are thinking about divorce because they start to take an interest in my divorce. Otherwise, divorce is something they pretend doesn’t exist. They act like it’s a communicable disease and they don’t want it to pass their lips, or they’ll jinx themselves and end up with a 50/50 custody agreement that essentially forces their kid’s dad to do the bare minimum of parenting.
Jaxon’s dad and I should have never been married, but if you get me drunk and dare me to do something, I’m gonna fucking do it. And it was fun for a while, but eventually you realize that the only thing that feels better than proving a stranger wrong is your freedom. We did a no-muss, no-fuss divorce that cost us a total of $149 because he printed the forms from the library. We didn’t use a lawyer, because we didn’t have any fucking money, and we didn’t argue. I could have been an asshole about it and made him pay me some alimony or child support, but I asked myself WWVDD and I realized that the Diesel thing to do was to remember that this big dummy had given me the most important thing I have: a family. I helped him pack up his shit in a U-Haul, and he got an apartment about a mile from my house. He’s married again to a
chick who bartends at the bowling alley near our house, and the two of them take Jaxon every other week. Jaxon likes it over there because she’s got a parrot that knows swear words, and she always brings home leftover pizza and chicken fingers from the bar. But not everyone can be as blessed as I am.
“HE’S BEEN HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH SOME WOMAN ON THE Internet,” Amy admits, and Kiki looks like she’s going to throw up.
“But you’re so pretty,” Kiki stutters, and I have to agree. Amy’s hot, so this Mike guy must be a fucking idiot.
“Maybe it’s my fault,” Amy says, like an actual fucking idiot. “We don’t even have sex anymore.”
“Kent and I have sex every Friday, after Blue Bloods,” Kiki says like it’s perfectly normal to watch a Tom Selleck cop show before you bang your husband.
This is not Amy’s fault. It’s not even that Internet lady’s fault. It’s just a shitty thing that shitty guys do, even if you have sex with them all the time.
“Why are you still with a loser who doesn’t even help you? Is he like, superhot or something?” I know he can’t be that hot, or I’d already know who he is. I’m guessing he was real cute when they were younger, but now he wears flip-flops in public, like people want to see hairy man toes when they’re at Applebee’s.
“I think it’s just that . . . I got knocked up, and we got married, and we never got our twenties. We never got to have fun.”
Wild twenties are a magical time in a girl’s life. I swear, in my twenties, it was just raining dicks everywhere I went. I didn’t have to swipe left or right, I just stepped out my door and right into someone’s bed. Or car. I couldn’t even go to the Container Store without locking it down with some hot young shelf stocker. I’m lost in the vague memory of sneaking out of a wedding reception with an uncle of the bride when we’re interrupted by one of those I-wear-a-T-shirt-for-sex guys, standing over our table like he’s mistaken us for a group of “colleagues” or something.
Bad Moms Page 10