People I Want to Punch in the Throat

by Jen Mann

  We inched our way up to the front and finally got to the driveway in front of the school. I scanned the faces of the few children left and could not see my son. I slowed down when I got to where his grade was corralled, and I could clearly see he was not there.

  The teacher who was waving the cars through noticed I’d stopped but no one was climbing in my car. She came to investigate the problem. I rolled down the window. “Have you seen Gomer? I don’t see him out here,” I said.

  “Gomer …” She thought hard.

  “He’s in Mrs. Carlson’s class,” I said.

  “Yes, I know. I’m her sub today. I’m trying to think when I saw him last. Now that you mention it, I never saw him come out of the building! Wait right here.” She ran inside the school and got the principal. Oh great, I thought. I grabbed a random child’s coat that had been discarded in the backseat and threw it over me awkwardly so my pajamas were not so noticeable.

  The principal came up to the car window and asked, “Everything okay?”

  “Gomer’s not here,” I said.

  “Hmm,” he said. “That’s not like him.”

  “No. No, it’s not.”

  “Hmm, I wonder where he could be …”

  I was starting to panic a bit. Where the hell was my kid? Why was everyone acting so calmly when my kid was missing? Do they usually lose kindergarteners? And then I remembered: the playdate. “Are the bus riders gone?” I asked.

  “Yes, why?” the principal asked.

  “I think Gomer rode the bus home with Braxton. I told him not to, but I’m sure that’s where he is. I’d better go so I can meet him at the bus stop.” I felt so much better now. I was positive that’s where he was. I remembered him chattering at breakfast that morning about getting to ride the bus, and I reminded him that I was going to pick him up. I was sure he’d stowed away on the bus when the substitute teacher wasn’t looking. I just wanted to get out of there so I could go meet the bus and confirm my suspicions. I tried to drive away and hide my embarrassing ensemble, but the principal wasn’t having it.

  “You’d better come in so we can call the bus company. I’d feel better knowing for sure Gomer’s on the bus. Just pull over there and park and come on into the school.”

  Noooooo!

  Good God, man, I’m in my pajamas! I screamed inside my head. And I wasn’t in “loungewear” pajamas that could easily pass for yoga pants or something like that. I was in full-on fleecy jammies with matchy-matchy top and bottom. Pink with black bunnies. There was no mistaking what I was wearing.

  I looked around. A crowd was starting to form. All I could see was a sea of skinny jeans, ankle boots, blanket sweaters, and Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses. I could see perfectly lined and glossed lips whispering to one another: Gomer’s missing! Why won’t his mother get out of the car with the principal? What’s wrong with her?

  Now I was frantic to get away. I couldn’t let the Dolce moms see me in my fleecy jammies. I didn’t have much of a reputation to uphold. I’m usually up at the school in ill-fitting cargo pants and shirts with permanent food stains across my bosom—it’s like a shelf where I can store leftovers I’ll never eat. I’m never the well-dressed mom at any event I attend. If I’m going out to a social thing, I tend to throw on a scarf to cover the stains on my shirt that are already there and the new ones I’ll surely acquire that night. I have one or two “cute” hats that are supposed to be stylish, but I need to stop wearing them, because I keep cutting my hair shorter and shorter and now I look sort of bald in my hats. The idea of squeezing myself into skinny jeans and toddling around in high-heeled boots is downright laughable, but I could get used to the giant Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses—then I wouldn’t have to worry about my raccoon eyes. Nobody expects much from me when I show up everywhere in cargo pants and Crocs, but my kids and I would be social pariahs if my bunnies and I stepped out of the car.

  “Could you call the bus company?” I begged. “I’ll run over to Braxton’s stop and meet the bus. If the bus company says Gomer’s not on the bus, you can call my cell.”

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. If I left now, I’d have just enough time to run home and pull on some clothes before the bus got there. I’d have to get out of the car at the bus stop and see Braxton’s mom, who, I was sure, would be in her own fabulous outfit. But I had to leave right now!

  I tried to start my car, but the principal stopped me. “I’m not really comfortable with that, Jen. I think you should come in so we can call the bus company together,” he said. “Just park the car and come on in.”

  I could feel sweat forming on my upper lip as I watched the Dolce moms watch me. I was going to have to get out of the car and show everyone that I’d come to school in the middle of the day in my pajamas.

  Then I had a genius thought! “Well, I have my little girl and she’s sick. I can’t leave her in the car alone.…”

  “Oh! I’d be happy to stay with her!” one of the Dolce moms said. Really? Are you kidding me, lady? Last week I was walking behind you carrying an armful of treats into the school and you let the door slam in my face, and now you’re willing to help? She was probably hoping Gomer really had been kidnapped so she’d have a good story for the girls at bunko on Thursday night. “It was so weird, you guys. She didn’t even seem worried he was missing. It was like she knew where he was—because she’d just buried his body!”

  The teachers, the principal, and the Dolce moms all stared at me and waited. I was out of excuses. What else could I do?

  “Well … okay. Thanks,” I said. Shit. I slowly picked up the kid-sized coat, wishing it was a full-length cape. I had just started to climb out of the car and into infamy when the school secretary ran out of the building shouting, “Gomer’s on the bus! Gomer’s on the bus!”

  “Oh, thank God!” one of the Dolce moms screamed. Did she actually wipe a tear from her eye? Seriously? Come on, lady, it wasn’t that dramatic.

  “Great! Well, I better get going so I can meet him at the bus stop.” I started up the car. “Thanks, everyone, for your help and concern!” I yelled as I burned rubber getting out of there.

  During the two-minute ride to the bus stop I went back and forth between being mad at Gomer for disobeying me (and subsequently mortifying me in front of his classmates’ moms) and being mad at myself for leaving the house in my pajamas: Really, Jen? Could you be any more of an idiot?

  I had to go past the bus stop to get home, and I could see Braxton’s mother standing there waiting. She waved me down as I got closer. “The bus isn’t here yet,” she said, “but the driver called. Gomer is on there.”

  “Yes! Thank you. The secretary was able to reach him, too. I just need to run home real fast and then I’ll be right back.”

  “You do? They’ll be here any minute. I thought you might want to speak to Gomer.”

  “I do! I will! I’ll be right back!” I sped off. I was tired of trying to hide my bunny pj’s from everyone. I was beginning to look absolutely insane.

  I ran home and threw on some dirty clothes (because dirty clothes are at least better than fuzzy jammies) and got back to Braxton’s bus stop before the bus arrived. Braxton’s mother was gone. Instantly I started missing my comfy jammies. Where did she go? Why did I even change? I wondered. As soon as Gomer stepped off the bus and saw me he burst into tears. He knew he’d made a mistake and gotten everyone worried. Before I could decide if I should let him go to Braxton’s or not, Braxton’s mother came out of her house and announced that the playdate was canceled. “We’ve been exposed to lice!” she announced. “Beatrix has a friend over from preschool, and I just noticed that her friend has lice. Her mother is on her way to get her, but I have to cancel Gomer. Surely you don’t want to take that chance?”

  She was right. Lice! The worst four-letter word of elementary school. “Ugh! We don’t want lice,” I said, with apparently a little too much disdain.

  “You know, lice are attracted to the cleanest heads of hair,” she emphasized.
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  “Well, we should be fine, then, because Gomer’s hair is disgusting,” I replied.

  She looked horrified. God, no one gets my sense of humor, I thought.

  All my worrying about ruining Gomer’s social life for the next four years was wiped away by that one change in events. The Dolce moms had a field day with a lice outbreak in their own ranks, and they quickly forgot about Gomer’s mom and her bunny pajamas, letting me slide back into obscurity. The next day I went out and spent $100 on assorted yoga pants so now I can lounge and cuddle in peace and look somewhat presentable when I have to pick up my kids at school.

  Now if I could just remember to wear a bra …

  In the immortal words of Monty Python: “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.” Maybe Monty Python didn’t expect it, but I think most women across the country do. Surely I am not the only wife who has to go through the Spanish Inquisition with the Hubs whenever I want to leave the house by myself. Please tell me that I’m not alone.

  I have had a standing date with my moms’ group every Tuesday night ever since I joined the Blue Playgroup. There are many hints for the Hubs that it’s Tuesday and my night out with the ladies: (1) it’s on the calendar, (2) I shower, (3) I put on clean clothes, and (4) every Tuesday around 4:00 P.M. I announce, “Don’t forget, today is Tuesday. I’ll be gone tonight. You’re in charge of dinner.”

  Every Tuesday around 4:05 P.M. I get the following response: “Really? You’re going out? Again? Didn’t you just go last week?”

  “Yes, I did go out last week. I got out every Tuesday,” I sigh.

  “Must be niiiiice. Well, what are you guys going to do? Anything fun?”

  I don’t know what the deal is. I don’t know why it makes a difference to him if I’m going to have fun or not, but it does. And it seems like the more fun I’m going to have, the more irritated he gets. So I tend to reply: “No, not really. We’re all getting bikini waxes and root canals. It should be horrible.”

  “Oh. Yeah, that does sound horrible. Why do you even go to this stuff? We could have so much more fun at home. We could watch TV together. I’ve got a bunch of Mythbusters saved up.”

  “That sounds great, but I really can’t stay home. I’m the one who organized this particular Moms’ Night Out, so I’m expected to be there early so I can take the first shot of novocaine before the root canals start.”

  “Hmm … okay. What time will you be back?”

  “Whenever the professionals say it’s safe to drive, but you’d better plan on late.”

  Even if I told him the truth, I doubt my Tuesday nights would sound fun to him. Especially the ones where we’re having a roundtable discussion about the secrets of potty training or when we bring in an expert extreme couponer to tell us how to get an extra 30 cents off milk from Target (actually, the cheap bastard would love that couponing one). I could barely tell him the night we went to the gun range, because I knew he’d want to tag along. (What? Doesn’t your local moms’ group go shoot a few rounds to blow off steam?) I don’t care what the topic is—I would go and listen to a speaker talk about beekeeping if it got me out of the house and allowed me to spend some time with people who don’t want anything from me.

  Unfortunately, this line of questioning is not just reserved for Tuesday nights. It seems like I have to play Twenty Questions every time I’d like to leave the house without at least one child in tow. If I try to sneak out the door, I get a barrage of questions:

  “Where are you going?”

  “What time will you be back?”

  “What do we need at the store?”

  “How much will you spend?”

  “What am I supposed to do with the kids while you’re gone?”

  These questions are just for the grocery store. Can you imagine the hoops I have to jump through to go get my hair cut?

  I am home all day long with the Hubs, as we both work from our home office. He is my only co-worker, and he’s in my space constantly. I love my husband dearly, but there are days I wouldn’t be opposed to burying his bludgeoned body in the backyard. Before you send the police to my house, just know that I dream about this sort of thing, but I would never actually go through with it. I’m weak and he’s kind of heavy, so I could never drag his ass out to the backyard or dig a grave. I’m not really built for manual labor.

  If it’s not the Hubs, then the kids come home from school and I can’t even pee alone. Every time I turn a corner I’m met with a whine for more food or help tying a shoe.

  I’m sorry that I would like to leave the house for a while—alone. I don’t think there is anything wrong with the fact that I find the idea of perusing the cereal aisle in peace and quiet appealing. I can’t be the only one who at times would like to go to the fucking grocery store by myself. I would like to go in the daylight hours when normal people shop, not after 10:00 P.M., like the Hubs would prefer. I would like to go and walk the aisles in silence and get everything on my list without anyone pestering me for Krave cereal (WTF is that stuff, anyway—crack for kids?), toys, and electronics (I’m looking at you, Hubs!).

  I listen to his questions and I typically respond with:

  “Target.”

  “Not sure.”

  “We need milk and cereal.”

  “Probably fifty dollars, because you’re not allowed to leave unless you spend at least fifty bucks.”

  “Just keep them alive.”

  And then I get the dreaded response: “I think we should all go.”

  Noooooooooooooo! The Hubs always thinks it’s a great idea for all of us to go to the store together, like some kind of twisted family outing. This is fun for no one except maybe the Hubs. He loves to be together. Only he doesn’t. Because inevitably he has some special item he’s looking for in the lawn and garden area or the automotive section (even though he doesn’t take care of our lawn or our vehicles), so he ditches me with a couple of kids melting down in the cereal aisle because I won’t buy Krave, while he goes searching for his random, made-up item that we absolutely must acquire right now. I think the real reason he comes along is so he can better monitor what I’m spending. If he’s there, he can pull items out of my cart.

  I’m not joking. He is always watching my spending. Usually he tracks the credit cards from the home computer. He’s the Big Brother of my bank card. One year at Christmastime I went out shopping for presents with my mother. After every transaction, he would call me. “What did you just buy at Toys R Us for $246?”

  “Presents.”

  “I see. We needed that much?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, well, are you done for the day?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, just make sure we really need all of that stuff before you buy it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Later that day I went to Best Buy to get him a video game for the Xbox. Before I even got to the car, my phone rang. “You bought me a game at Best Buy?” he asked.

  “Well, I bought something at Best Buy. What makes you think it’s for you?” I asked.

  “I know what it is and you totally overpaid. Go back and return it. I can get it cheaper online.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am. Go and return it. Best Buy’s prices are outrageous. You know that.”

  That was the last year I bought him a Christmas present.

  Between the Inquisition and the online snooping, I don’t even know why I bother trying to go out alone. It always ends the same way, with me saying: “Never mind. You ruined it. You go to the fucking store and take the kids. I’ll stay home and enjoy the peace and quiet of you guys being gone!” And then I turn around and he’s gone to the store by himself and left me alone with the kids! Well played, Hubs. Well played.

  Am I the only one who has kids who wait to start the most bizarre conversations until we’re all trapped in the car?

  We eat dinner together every night, and when I ask, “How was your day?” I get deafening silence. Bedtime is not any
better. Instead of telling me about their hopes and dreams as I tuck them in, Gomer remembers an important assignment that’s due the next day or Adolpha develops phantom leg pains and they both realize how parched they are. You would think these would be the perfect times to stretch their curious little minds.

  Nope, not my kids. It’s always when we’re in the car. On a trip to the grocery store I went into great anatomical detail when sweet five-year-old Gomer asked where babies come from and wouldn’t take my standard “Babies come from God” answer. On a quick jaunt to the library, I tried not to laugh and drive off the road when a very concerned and serious four-year-old Adolpha asked me, “Someday will I have a mustache on my ’china, too?” She’d caught a glimpse of me in the shower that morning and was quite disturbed at the state of my “ ’china,” and wanted to know if there was a way to make hers look better.

  Her statement didn’t surprise me at all. I can always count on Adolpha to keep it real for me and to never sugarcoat anything. She gets that ability from her father. She once drew a picture of me with enormous crow’s feet around my eyes. When I asked about them, she replied simply, “I just draw what I see, Mommy.” Remind me to never ask her to draw me from behind.

  When she was about five years old, we were on a run to the craft store when she decided to give me the cold, hard truth about the Hubs.

  “Mommy, where’s Daddy?” she asked.

  It was a Saturday afternoon in the spring, and like most Saturdays in the spring, the Hubs was out showing houses to clients. “He’s at work,” I replied.

  Adolpha thought for a moment and then asked, “How do you know he’s at work?”

  I was actually a little confused by her question. “Well, because he told me he was going to work when he left the house this morning,” I replied.

  “No, how do you know?”

  “Adolpha, I don’t understand your question. What do you mean?”