I rolled toward him. The cold white light of his phone shone against his face like a flood light. Guess what, ass-hole? Our kids aren’t the only cock blockers in the house. I wished I could rise above my frustration and say anything helpful so we didn’t go to bed angry. It felt dangerous to ignore the number one piece of marriage advice. What if this was the moment that undid us? But my tank was empty. No reserves. Not everyone’s night could end with love.
So I curled up, and turned away from Aaron, listening to the hum of Violet’s white noise machine through the baby monitor. I wished I were back where things were more simple—with Elliot, underneath the innocent glimmer of his ceiling stars.
CHAPTER FIVE
Swallowed Up
MA-MAAAAAAAA! MA-MAAAAAAA!”
As if last night’s argument had brought a curse upon the house, I woke up to Violet screaming my name over the monitor. No slow build. Full throttle.
My body jolted and I looked over at Aaron, who lay in bed still asleep and in the fetal position, completely unaware of Violet’s commotion.
How is this my life? I can’t keep living like this.
At minute six, when I couldn’t bear to hear her yell my name any more, I moved the monitor toward Aaron’s stupid head. I snapped it back and pretended to be asleep when he started to wake.
“I’ll go grab her,” he said.
A nicety. Or was it? Is going to get your daughter a nicety or just part of being a father? I rubbed my temples with a forceful thumb. It was too early to be writing an internal thesis on the existence of double standards in the parenting dyad.
I perked up at the sudden realization that today Violet and I were having a playdate—a forgotten lifeline with the promise of adult conversation. For this, I jumped out of bed.
My friendship with Danielle was fairly new. We met at a Gymboree class when her bruiser son, Owen, crawled over Violet, giving her a bloody lip. Danielle was mortified, apologizing profusely and offering to buy me lunch after class. It was like the old days of being picked up at a bar, except there was blood, clowns, and tiny bubbles.
Danielle was a lawyer, on hiatus to be at home with Owen, but preparing to go back full-time next month. She was unlike the stuffy lawyer stereotype I had expected. She was open, funny, and sometimes referred to Owen as “This Motherfucker Right Here.” One of the things I most appreciated about her was her desire talk about things other than gymnastics classes, Instant Pot recipes, and PTA fundraisers. When the kids weren’t constantly interrupting us, we talked about when we lost our virginity, which foreign countries we longed to visit, which drugs we’d tried, and the onslaught of political and racist blights occurring daily. No topic was off limits. We were smart, thinking women first, and moms second. But if Danielle wasn’t such a catch, I might’ve dumped her on account of Owen’s constant bullshit.
I pulled into the sprawling mini-mall parking lot in front of the local Barnes and Noble. A Home Goods, Jamba Juice, Michaels, and Old Navy made it a Mom Mecca. Or almost, for there was no Target.
I parked my miniature van next to a pristine, white, convertible BMW. In contrast to our quaint, tightly-packed neighborhood were the million-dollar, gated communities surrounding it. We technically lived in Laguna Beach, but we were at the very eastern tip of it, which meant we were closer to the Hobby Lobby than any fancy Laguna art gallery. But no matter which side of the gates we were on, SoCal’s weather didn’t discriminate. When the state wasn’t on fire, the sky was perfect and the air was perfect, just like today.
I scanned the Barnes and Noble entrance looking for Danielle and Owen. I never realized the number of play-dates that went down in places of business until I had children. Barnes and Noble was like an upgraded library, with its in-house cafe and shelves of shiny new things to distract toddlers with while moms talk. And unlike parks, it had doors to corral escape artists.
Beep. Danielle drove by in her Lexus SUV, smiling. She refused to sell her soul to the minivan—and other parts of motherhood. She parked and hopped out. Everything felt better in the presence of another adult.
“How’s my little Violet?” she asked sweetly, scrunching up her face. Violet blushed.
Danielle had rows of box braids and was wearing actual pants. Chinos, to be exact, with a light blue button-up shirt, like adults wear. I was wearing black leggings and a fitted cotton dress with pockets—a slightly more mature version of what Violet was wearing. My post-kids fashion sense had taken a nose dive toward comfort and ease of washing.
“This playdate may have been the only reason I got out of bed this morning,” I said, peeking past Danielle, into the car to say hi to Owen. He stared back at me, expressionless. Maybe I hadn’t sufficiently hidden the obligation in my salutation to him. Or maybe he was just a dick. Maybe we were both dicks.
I gave Danielle the G-rated/in-front-of-kids rundown of my previous night. She attentively listened to all of the painstaking details while trying to hoist Owen from the car.
“Damn,” she said, struggling to shut the door while holding Owen and her overstuffed bag of toddler paraphernalia.
“Here, let me take that.” I swept in and grabbed her bag. “It sure looks like you could use a minivan,” I said, trolling her by emphatically pressing the door close button on my key remote. The four of us stood there, watching the magical door slide closed.
“Nah, I’m good,” she said, laughing with what sounded like a hint of pity for me.
We walked toward the gilded front doors of the not-yet-open Barnes and Noble. A crew of customers had already formed outside. There was something oddly embarrassing about showing up at a store before it opened, something I’d never done until I had kids who often woke up before the sun. As we found our place within the opening crew, Danielle elbowed me and cautiously nodded toward a woman in purple and electric yellow leggings with llamas on them. The woman smiled desperately through tired eyes, her drooling infant strapped to her chest like a bomb. She was clearly jonesing for adult human contact. And sleep. And a wardrobe not designed by Mormon women entrepreneurs. I smiled at her until Danielle gave me eyes that said “Let’s not become part of her day.” Danielle was right. Our time together was holy, and we had a lot to cover. I was hoping to get back to our discussion about “womanism,” if the kids were chill enough to let us go deeper. No time for scooping up lost souls today.
Once the store was open, Owen stamped his way through the doorway and then bolted for the children’s section in the back, but not before straight-arm shoving Violet. Danielle sprinted after him, embarrassed and mouthing, “I’m sorry” to us, as usual.
Violet’s tiny hand took mine. I crouched down to her level. “I’m sorry Owen pushed you. I’ll keep an eye on him, okay?” Bottom lip jutting out, she nodded. I kissed her forehead and stood back up. I took a big inhale, filling my body with one of my favorite smells: new books. With words. Adult words, with no pictures of bus-driving pigeons or cats who think they’re Chihuahuas. I hadn’t read a nonparenting book for myself in nearly eight years. Violet yanked on my hand.
The kid’s section was a cornucopia of color and whimsy that could sweeten even the most sour adult. And there was exquisite order that could only be experienced first thing in the morning before the toddler ransacking had commenced. It was visual Xanax.
We quickly heard and then saw Owen, who had zeroed in on a bin of stuffed Cliffords and was dumping that shit right out, methodically making his way to the next bin of plushies. Danielle threw her hands up and then bent down onto the hard carpet to put the fuzzy red dogs back. Violet found a baby animal lift-the-flap book on a low shelf and sat down with it on the log bench, away from Owen.
“So why is Aaron always working late now?” Danielle asked.
“Death by pumpkins.”
“Right. I don’t get all the pumpkin hype. If it were that good, wouldn’t people be eating it all year?”
A lawyer had finally exposed the lie of the pumpkin lover. I crouched down next to Danielle, helping h
er pick up the newly tossed Curious Georges. If the price for in-person chat time was picking up stuffed animals all day, we would gladly pay it. We moved over to the mound of freshly unloaded Very Hungry Caterpillars.
“I know his work needs him. But playing the good wife is taking its toll for sure. I get no relief.”
“Have you called Tanya yet?” Danielle was referring to a babysitter she’d kept pressuring me to hire, as if it were that easy. It was probably that easy.
“Not yet,” I confessed.
“Ap. Ril.” She clapped her hands as she said each syllable of my name. “A babysitter is a necessity. What is your hang up?”
One of my other favorite things about Danielle—her way of calling bullshit—was now being used on me. I appreciated it more when it was directed at say, the President or pumpkins. I felt more defensive than I wanted to.
“Well, money. Hard to justify spending it on ‘me time.’ Then there’s the whole letting-a-potential-psycho-take-care-of-my-kids thing. Did you see that video on Facebook?” I dug for my phone to show her horrifying footage of a babysitter sitting on a toddler and whacking its face. Somebody had posted it on one of my sometimes helpful, always catty mom groups.
“Unless it’s my babysitter giving Owen a beat down, I don’t need to see it,” she said, holding up her hand to stop me. “I’ve already vetted Tanya for you. Owen loves her, she’s a college student who lives with her parents, and she’s still obsessed with Cinderella. How much more wholesome can you get? She’s $10 an hour. What other excuses you got?”
Danielle and her husband, Daveed, were financially comfortable, and $10 an hour sounded like chump change to them, where it sounded like “vital groceries” to me. They had a membership to the local swanky gym instead of the rundown YMCA, and vacationed in hotels rather than in friends’ guestrooms. In contrast, nearly a decade of me staying at home with the kids had choked our finances, and calculations showed that even if I went back to work, we’d still be strapped because of the high price of reliable childcare and the fact that I couldn’t earn a six-figure salary. I shouldn’t have felt responsible for our income, but my inner feminist did.
“Aaron thinks a babysitter’s going to steal our identity.”
“If Aaron were the stay-at-home parent, how long do you think it would take him to hire a damn babysitter?”
“Two hours,” I laughed.
“Exactly. And where are you at?”
“Uh, eight years.” Saying it out loud made me feel a twinge of shame. “But I can’t get over paying somebody money to do a job that I signed up to do.”
“At what cost?” Danielle was becoming exasperated with me. “What you’re paying for is your mental health. It’s either a babysitter or Prozac.” She held her hands out like scales tipping back and forth.
Suddenly there was a loud, continuous thud. We looked up to see Owen arm-swiping an entire shelf of books onto the floor. Violet sat contently next to a stack of books by the Dr. Seuss display. Was she really this well-mannered? It felt like I was looking at her through some sort of enchanted glasses.
“Owen, you pick those up right now,” Danielle ordered, standing up.
He positioned himself for another swipe of the higher shelf.
“You. Pick. Those. Up,” she demanded, in a tone that made me realize I was witnessing Courtroom Danielle. She stamped over to Owen, who lowered his arm in fear. She didn’t waste any energy agonizing over how she spoke to him or how mindful of a parent she was being. Sometimes I was jealous of Danielle’s ability to not give a shit, and other times my mind flashed forward to Owen in therapy as an adult. Her no-nonsense parenting surely affected his temperament, even if it spared her sanity.
“Should we head to PetSmart?” I asked, knowing that Owen was going to keep upping his dumping ante and there was a whole table of Harry Potter box sets nearby. Danielle nodded with desperate eyes. I turned to Violet. “Do you want to go see fuffies and kitties?”
“Ya ya ya!” she cheered.
“How about if Owen and I grab us drinks, and we’ll meet you over there?” Danielle asked, pointing at the in-house Starbucks.
“Sure. But let me take Owen so you don’t have to wrangle him in line.” I reached out for his dimpled hand and hoped I could handle it.
“I owe you. Extra pumpkin spice in your tea, right?” She smirked.
“Never!” I yelled like a warrior refusing to go down in battle. She darted toward the smell of coffee and momentary freedom.
The two kids and I marched out the golden doors and through the automatic sliding doors of PetSmart, next door. Suburban playdate gold. The smell of wood chips, dog piss, and birds hit hard.
“Mama, I wanna see fishys,” Violet said, pointing to the big wall of stacked fish tanks. I maneuvered them through the aisles to avoid passing the snakes. She and Owen stood in front of the aquariums, pointing. His pointing quickly turned into glass tapping.
“We don’t want to tap the glass, Owen. It scares the fishys,” I said, bending down between he and Violet. He looked at me blankly and turned back to the tank. His finger morphed into a fist and he punched the glass. The fish scattered.
“Owie, no!” Violet said.
He did it again. POUND! The fish clustered in the back corner. Right as I wondered if I would have to put my hands on Owen’s to make him stop, Danielle came up behind us with warm drinks and two pink cake pops.
Again, POUND!
“Owen!” Danielle shrieked, pushing the goods into my hands so she could manhandle him. “Do not even think of touching that tank again.” She yanked his fist away from the glass. Violet quickly noticed the presence of pink and cake. So did Owen.
“Mama, I needs pink!” Violet said. Owen snatched one out of my hand.
“This Motherfucker right here . . .” Danielle mumbled, throwing her arms up and shaking her head. She bent down and gave a cake pop to Violet. “This one’s for you, Sweetie.”
“Thank you, Danielle,” I said, urging Violet to say the same.
“Tank oo.”
Danielle patted Violet’s head. “You must know some parenting secret I don’t. She’s so well-behaved. Can we trade for a day?”
I looked at Violet proudly and ran my fingers through the sun-kissed ringlets at the bottom of her light brown hair. My fingers stopped, trapped in the knots. “Sorry to ruin the fantasy, but she isn’t like this all the time. Or even most of the time,” I whispered, not touching the “can we trade for a day” comment at all. Because HELL NO.
“At least she holds it together sometimes, unlike this bulldozer.” Danielle jiggled Owen until he giggled. It was nice to see him not in trouble for once.
We sipped our drinks and the kids munched on cake balls as we meandered past the guinea pigs and rats, finally arriving at the great glass wall of doggies in daycare. It was an interesting melding of delicious tastes and atrocious smells. Violet stood there slowly licking her pop, mesmerized by frolicking fuffies amid the fur wonderland. Probably not the most hygienic playdate.
Owen raised his fist to the glass and looked at Danielle.
“Owen Allen!” she scolded. His name sounded like a knock-off furniture store. He lowered his fist.
“What do you guys have going on the rest of the day?” I asked, feeling like we’d spent too much time trying to fix my life. Danielle needed a turn.
“Tanya’s coming over. I have a late lunch with the firm.” “Wow, a lunch date. With only adults. Imagine that.”
“I have to stay in the loop with work or I’ll forget everything I worked for before Owen. I swear, motherhood could swallow me up whole, if I let it.” She took a sip of her coffee.
Ouch. I took a long pull off of my tea to soothe the sting of Danielle’s words, unsure if her dig was intentional or not.
“I didn’t mean that as some passive aggressive comment about you, April. I was fully referring to myself.”
I shook my head and looked downward. “Oh, oh no. It’s fine.”
She reached for my arm, came in close and looked at me seriously, like a doctor about to give a life-changing diagnosis. “You give so much of yourself to your children. I could never do what you do. You are the most amazing mom I know.”
“Thanks.” Her compliment didn’t feel as good as it sounded. I traced the hot tea cup lid with my finger. “But I feel like I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Everything seems so fragile. I want to do this right for them, but it’s so much work. I love them, and I’m trying to like motherhood, but I just can’t. The whole thing is awful.”
Danielle’s eyes widened. I regretted saying that last part. Violet tugged on my leg, but my attention didn’t veer from Danielle and the words I’d just blurted out.
“But you’ve got this motherhood thing on lock,” she said. I looked at her, incredulous, but she continued. “You make dinners. From scratch. You put two kids to bed, and you lay with at least one of them until he falls asleep. You change diapers while practicing spelling words with Elliot— I’ve seen it. You can diagnose strep throat by smelling your kids’ breath. You knew that stuff in plastic, um, that stuff that heats up or whatever . . .”
“BPA.”
“Yeah, BPA—you knew that was toxic before anyone else did. April, you know your mom shit.”
“It’s survival. I’d rather not know the smell of strep. I’d rather be reading a novel in silence on the sunny spot of the couch than Googling toxins. I do those things because I have to, not because I want to.” Was I yelling? It felt like I was yelling. But it was Violet.
“MAMA, OWIE STICK POP!”
Danielle and I turned from my wreckage to see what she was shouting about. The great glass wall of doggies had been blurred by the smears of pink frosting and crumbly cake. Owen stood there gripping the stick and dragging the pop’s remains across the glass.
Adult Conversation Page 4