“No Mama, waaaaaaaaait,” Violet pleaded as I flew past her.
“I’m so sorry for that,” I said to the voice on the phone, rounding the corner into my bedroom and then into the closet. I shut the closet door and quickly pressed the lock button, an unintentional gift from the home owner before us. They must’ve had children.
“Are you still there?” I tried to catch my breath and hoped I wasn’t about to be congratulated on the timeshare I’d just won.
“Yes. This is Jackie from Mother Roots.”
I smiled into the phone. Violet was now on the other side of the door, crying and pounding her fists. BOOM. BOOM. Determined, I walked straight into a rack of Aaron’s hanging suit jackets and slid them closer to my ears. I was now soundproof.
“We had a last-minute opening at three this afternoon. It’s short notice, but would you like to take it?” If only they could see me burrowed in my husband’s suits with a tiny hurricane on the other side of the door, then they would know that the answer was hell to the yes.
“I would love to take it.”
I was buzzing, and apparently out of my mind because I had forgotten that I needed childcare before saying yes to anything in my life. Three p.m. was only two hours away. I peeked my head out from the wall of wool surrounding me. There was a strange lack of sound. The ruckus against the door in all forms had stopped. I relished the moment of silence, knowing it wouldn’t last, and sat down on a pile of dirty laundry. I quickly S.O.S. texted my next-door neighbor, Chloe.
I moved on to Aaron’s mom, Lucinda, who lived about twenty minutes away, forging a back-up plan. Someone had to help me. I switched back and forth between Chloe and Lucinda’s text screens, hoping to see response dots pop up, but there was no sign from either of them.
I panicked, knowing that I would have to do the last thing I wanted to do. I would have to ask Aaron to come home early to watch the kids. I hated involving him and the wife guilt it would induce, but missing this opportunity with Mother Mary just wasn’t an option.
I began my campaign.
Heyyyyy. That therapist’s office called and they have an opening for me today at 3pm. I tried Chloe and your mom to see if they could watch the kids, but no word back. I MUST go to that appointment. Is there any way you could work from home so I could go?
I felt sick as I pressed send. It had been hard enough to convince him that this was necessary for my mental health, and now here I was groveling like an underling, hoping I would be granted permission for self-care. Exactly how were moms supposed to partake in self-care when it usually hinged on begging other people for help? Isn’t that technically not “self” care?
The response dots appeared.
Yeah, I can leave in ten.
Moments like this reminded me why I married Aaron. I knew plenty of my friends’ husbands wouldn’t say yes. And yet, beneath my gratitude, there was irritation. It wasn’t directed personally at Aaron, but at the way motherhood turns even the nicest husbands into overlords. My former independent self was turning over in her grave.
Aaron messaged back the emoji of the smile with the hearts for eyes, which abated my inner dialogue. And then he sent the peach, which looked like a big round ass. I responded with the eggplant, which looked like a penis. He messaged back the double cherries. We were eighth graders at our core.
I remembered I was sitting on a heap of dirty laundry and locked in a closet when I heard a rip outside the door that sounded like paper tearing. I hoped Violet wasn’t shredding cash from my wallet again. I burst out of the cave of clothing to find her surrounded by opened maxi pads with their stickies peeled off. About ten were stuck to the bathroom wall and she was flapping the absorbent wings as if they were butterflies.
“Mama, I stick!” Violet pointed proudly at the decorated wall. Oddly, the maxi-pad mural didn’t phase me. I’m outta here in two short hours.
“Wow, you figured out how to open those. Smart girl.”
Violet grinned, puffing out her chest. I let the engrossed artist continue her work, and sat down on the edge of the bed, finally feeling the excitement of what was to come in a few hours at Mother Roots. And then came the nausea. My stomach fluttered. I’d assumed Mother Mary was warm-hearted and forgiving, but maybe I was wrong. It hit me that I didn’t actually know much about her. And me—where would I even begin in my story? It would take weeks to tell it all. But just as quickly as my worry came on, it dissipated when I remembered that I would be getting kid-free time.
Violet started yawning amid a sea of pad wrappers. It was thirty minutes past her usual nap time. I hoped I hadn’t missed the precious “sleep window.” I had stockpiled every book on infant and toddler sleep, and granted, my mind was about as sharp as a Boppy pillow when I read them, but one thing that all the books talked about was this elusive “golden window” when putting babies and toddlers to sleep. It was some magical timeframe that you had to adhere to or the nap would be ruined and it would be the mother’s fault for not recognizing the signs earlier. The child had to be sleepy, but not too sleepy. You had to sense this window before your child showed any signs of it, or else it was too late. Your kid is yawning? Too late! It wasn’t enough that mothers had to be cooks, drivers, doctors, and playmates, they also needed to be psychics if they wanted their kids to sleep, and that still wasn’t a guarantee.
I swept Violet up from the pile of green wrappings and snuggled her close. She welcomed it. “I love you big,” I whispered into her tiny ear, setting her down softly inside the crib. As I brought Purple Blanket up to tuck her in, I heard a ruffle duffle. A maxi-pad was stuck to her back. It was an extra-long nighttime one and covered the entire length of her torso. I laughed quietly to myself, then reached for the pad to slowly pull it off, in hopes she wouldn’t notice. But she did.
“No, Mama, I needs sticker.”
“Fine, it’s all yours,” I said and handed the maxi-pad to her. She took it in her hands and hugged it close, like it was a treasured part of the crib crew. I blew a kiss and crept out of the room.
It was already 1:45 p.m. Elliot would be coming home from school shortly. I glanced down and realized that I looked like a street person. Everything—including my wardrobe, hair, and makeup—could be used for or against me today. I wanted to look nice, but not too nice. I wanted to be my real self, but not actually wear what my real self was wearing. Even Mother Mary wouldn’t be nurturing enough to look past someone who literally couldn’t get dressed before going out in public.
I scanned my closet, looking for my go-to “I’m a functional adult” shirt. It was an India-inspired lilac tunic with an Americanized spin (light distressing). Mother Mary would love it. I slipped it on along with jean capris, grey Toms, a quick pass of mascara, and hoop earrings. You can’t be clinically depressed if you’re wearing hoop earrings.
On my way out of the bedroom, a shimmer across the room caught my eye. It was the afternoon light hitting the shiny, sharp needle in my sewing machine, which was dusty and sitting in the corner, in a perpetual time-out. We hadn’t spent time together in ages. I plucked a tissue from the box on my bedside table and ran it across the body of the sewing machine, freeing it from the fuzz.
Downstairs, I flicked on the monitor and there was Violet, sitting straight up and swimming her Ariel doll in the air instead of sleeping. I’d missed the fucking window. But her lack of nap would be Aaron’s cross to bear. At least for a bit.
It was ten minutes before I needed to leave and Aaron still wasn’t home, nor was Elliot, until the sound of the garage door hummed. Elliot burst through the door, already halfway through taking off his pants. “Mom, Jackson just told me about the coolest thing in Five Nights at Freddy’s—there’s a golden Freddy and he only comes up sometimes but when he does it’s really special and it means that you unlocked something. But Chica is my favorite because she looks like an evil rubber duck but I think she’s really a chicken . . .”
The will to live drained from my body as he kept talking about a wo
rld that I had zero interest in. I didn’t know if one could die from listening to their kid talk about video games, but it felt possible. I tried to stay present and listen to the run-on sentences about a scary-ass animatronic bear and chicken/duck that had been giving him nightmares, but what I really wanted to do was shout, “Reclaiming my time. Reclaiming my time.” I focused on his eager eyes, which pulled me back into the moment as he finished.
“Sounds cool, El,” I managed.
“Violet?” he asked, looking down and pointing at the failed snack bribes on the floor.
“Yep.”
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked me. Maybe my functional adult shirt tipped him off.
“Yes, I have a meeting.”
“A meeting? But you don’t have a job.”
Just great. The people I worked for considered me unemployed.
Instead of educating him on the ignorance of his words, I looked at the clock again for the twelfth time. Five minutes past when I needed to leave. Aaron was making me sweat it out. Then I heard the telltale hum of his Prius pulling in.
“Love you,” I yelled to Elliot as I bolted out the door, purse in hand, blowing him a kiss. He blew one back.
“Sorry. Have to hurry. Late!” I said to Aaron as I opened my van door and quickly started the engine.
“What time will you be home?” he shouted through the passenger window. Wouldn’t you like to know? Maybe Mother Mary and I will grab some Thai food after our session and discuss the international human-rights struggle.
“I don’t know,” I mouthed through the window, liberated to be the keeper of time, for once. Aaron nodded with a hint of submission I recognized all too well, and then he walked into the house.
I was alone. In a minivan. The world was my oyster. There were socks, bowls, books, sticks, and snack wrappers everywhere behind me. That limo-like partition couldn’t come soon enough.
As I pulled out of our street, I saw one of my neighbors, Val, picking up strewn pieces of sidewalk chalk while chasing her naked toddler out of the street. So long, suckers.
I attended to the first order of business as a white suburban mom with freedom—putting on old-school hiphop, a music that was not made for us, but made me feel free. Childless even. I cranked the volume to a deafening level and the painkilling backbeat of Ice Cube’s “Today Was a Good Day” poured through my garbage can on wheels. The outside world was bright, so I slid my Target sunglasses on. Soon I would be in the shelter of Mother Mary’s loving arms, burrowing my head in an authentic scarf from the holy city of Tiberias.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mom Vomit
The waiting area of Mother Roots was a shabby-chic sanctuary. There were overstuffed, inviting armchairs and perfectly mismatched mugs for complimentary tea and cucumber water.
Immediately upon walking in the door, my eyes fixated on an immense mural of the deeply rooted, leaf-changing tree from their website. The trunk and branches looked like they were cross-sectioned off a real tree. The thick roots were made from some sort of tightly twisted rope and were embedded in dirt behind glass, like in an ant farm. The leaves were shiny, colored glass pieces with delicate veining. I moved close to the wall to examine it more carefully. The tree was exquisite—a genuine work of art.
“Hello there,” a small voice called from across the room. As I moved toward the check-in desk, the tree’s leaves changed color in unison with my step. I back-stepped. The glass was a different color from each angle. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.
“I see you’re hypnotized by our tree,” the receptionist said. I nodded. Her nametag read “Jackie.”
Like her phone persona, Jackie was a sunny woman. With tiny eyes and a pointy nose, she looked a bit like a mole from a storybook. She wore a dress that appeared to be a giant flap of corduroy material that had a hole cut for her head in the middle.
“Just gorgeous,” I said, still gawking at the tree. “Mary, one of our therapists here, dabbles in sculpture.” Mother Mary was already batting a thousand. “You must be April.”
I nodded. “Thank you so much for fitting me in.”
Jackie smiled bigger than necessary, making her cheeks grow a size larger. “Here is a form and questionnaire to help us help you best.”
I sat down and soaked in my solitude. It reminded me of how I didn’t see the night sky for a year after my kids were born, constantly staying inside after dark, working hard for their sleep. Standing outside in the crisp night air and seeing the moon for the first time in twelve months felt like a revelation, just like sitting in this spotless chair, sipping on cucumber water, and gazing at actual art, with zero chance a child would ruin the moment. I turned off my phone ringer just to be sure and when I did, I noticed a small adhesive backing from the maxi-pads clinging to my sleeve. I looked around to see if anyone saw (they hadn’t), crumpled it, and tossed it into my purse. The sound of a babbling brook trickled somewhere in the room, hidden.
Clipboard on my lap, I blazed through the boiler-plate questions, halting at “Occupation.” There were so many things I used to do—the clothing line, assisting the city’s best caterer with red-carpet events, teaching dance classes at the local rec center, showering without an audience.
When Elliot first went to preschool, I restarted my clothing line part-time, focusing on children’s designs. It was serendipitous that my first-ever mommy friend, Lizzy, also sewed. I hired her, and together we learned how to mother while also making baby and kids’ apparel with appliques made from vintage t-shirts we’d score at local thrift shops. We called each piece a “work of art” because no two were alike. There were shirts with appliqued octopi, elephants, turtles, cars, hearts, cats, horses, robots, or any other design a kid could beg for. It was almost hard to believe how entrepreneurial and motivated I was as a new mom. Naïve too.
My Russian great-grandmother taught me to sew when I was a child. Great Grandma Ruby was fiery and lived to be 104 years old. She was also an enigma—skilled at being a devoted mother of five and also an activist on the front lines of the women’s suffrage movement. She sewed protest banners. One of my biggest heartaches was Great Grandma Ruby passing before I knew to ask her how she juggled all the various pieces of herself. I often had dreams where she and I were sewing together—her hands guiding mine as I fed the cloth toward the needle and thread. But every time I’d take the finished fabric out and tug at stitches, they would rip apart.
I named my clothing company Ruby Riot, in honor of her. It was on its way to being successful, getting picked up in a few Los Angeles boutiques, and on the backs of two celebrity children. But everything had stalled out after Violet was born, despite my intentions of keeping up with orders from a handful of regular customers and friends. The demands of two kids at two different stages made juggling one more ball impossible. My once-organized fabrics and threads were now stuffed haphazardly into bins in the garage, under the Easter baskets.
I stared at the intake form on my lap. I couldn’t bring myself to answer the occupation question with “none” since I managed every last detail in our household, from scheduling the plumber to the whereabouts of every toy we owned, and for no pay. So instead I wrote, “CEO” and flipped the page.
The first question read: “What are you hoping for today?” A diagnosis that could garner me two weeks solo in a quiet hospital with room service sounded ideal. Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t have worn the earrings. Instead I wrote: “I’d like to know if what I’m feeling as a mother is normal or not. I’d also like to learn how to make it feel easier.”
Next was a section that asked me to check ‘yes’ or ‘no’ if I’d ever experienced any of the following: Extreme depressed mood, rapid speech, sleep disturbances, unexplained losses of time, unexplained memory lapses, frequent body complaints, eating disorder.
I sneered out loud while reading these. Jackie glanced my way, so I curbed my laughter with a fake cough and looked back down at the page. If I was being honest, I could answer yes to every single
one of these things, but I’d need at least a paragraph of explanation for each. Extreme depressed mood? Like you get when you’ve been with kids for twelve hours straight and your husband tells you he has to work late, again? Sleep disturbances—really? Wasn’t this the biological essence of babies? Unexplained losses of time? Like when you forget to move the clothes from the washer to the dryer over and over again for an entire week?
My amusement turned into frustration. The “red flag” items listed on this form were an inherent part of motherhood. It felt like a trap. I didn’t want Mother Mary to mis-diagnose me just because I checked some boxes on a form, so I checked “no” to all of them.
I hesitated at the next question: “Have you ever had suicidal thoughts?” Here was the big one. The glaring, cardinal flag. The truth was, any parent who had gone long periods of time without sufficient sleep (all parents) would tell you that at some point—even if for a microsecond— they had to acknowledge that the only way they could get immediate, uninterrupted sleep was to be dead. And for that split second, death sounded really great. But that for sure wasn’t the same as driving your van into the ocean, so I checked the ‘no’ box, finished up, and handed the forms to a jolly Jackie.
“Come with me,” she said, getting up from behind the desk.
The halls were adorned with National Geographic– type photos of mothers and children of different ethnicities. It stuck out to me that not all the mothers were smiling. Many looked desperate. Some had their tube-like breasts exposed with babies suckling. There was something delightfully disarming about walking through a hall of mothers baring it all, not smiling for the camera. It was the opposite of Facebook.
As I followed a shuffling Jackie, I spied the photos of the counselors from the Mother Roots website. There was Mother Mary, exuding wisdom and tenderness. And there was the headshot of the perfectly-coiffed blonde with model hair. Barf.
Adult Conversation Page 6