I shuffled to the snack cabinet and began preparing a diverse assortment of crunchy bribery that would hopefully keep Violet occupied tomorrow as the both of us did our best to make it through the pop-up—and her no-nap time—in one piece. I packed all the healthy stuff—freeze-dried green beans, protein bars, dehydrated bananas, an apple, two small tangerines, and beef jerky—into her favorite pink lunch bag. Then I moved onto the not-as-healthy, bottom-of-the-cabinet back-ups from parties and holidays, should she go berserk: Twizzlers, Cheetos, M&M’s, and a lollipop. Those would go into Elliot’s old Minions lunch bag, which would be used like a fire extinguisher behind glass.
The next morning, I had set my alarm early enough to have kid-free time so I could shower and dress myself for the pop-up shop without a person attached to me. The house was dark and quiet, Aaron still snoring away. I needed to wear something stylish so CeCe’s fabulous people believed I was one of them—or at least fit to be in the same house with them. I slipped into a black-patterned maxi skirt with a flowy tank top and a chambray shirt— also known as a “jean shirt” everywhere outside of California and New York. The outfit was just neutral enough to slide under the radar and not raise any waxed eyebrows. I pulled out my jar of jewelry from the halcyon days of blow drying and accessorizing and reached for my silver bracelet and teardrop earrings.
Downstairs, I had ten minutes before Elliot would need to be woken up. If I hurried, maybe I could eat breakfast alone and sitting down. But when I shut the fridge door, there he stood already, groggy, and in his too-small Mario Bros. jammies. “Whoa, it’s morning and you took a shower, Mom?”
“I know, big change for me.”
At 9:30 a.m., only Violet and I remained. She was wearing her special Ruby Riot “Oc-pus” shirt. If she had to come, she could at least help with marketing.
With Violet buckled in her car seat, snack and diaper bags packed, various princesses secured, and the box of inventory loaded, I began to pull out of the garage, but then stopped. I ran back inside to grab my Ergo baby carrier. I hadn’t worn Violet in it for quite a while since she now preferred combat to snuggling, but I needed to have all the tools at my disposal today in case my only choice was to strap her to my body like the explosive she sometimes was.
We passed Elliot’s school, waving at the playground and saying, “Hi Elliot!” The canyon behind his school looked greener than usual this foggy morning as we passed the gated subdivisions on our way to the freeway toward fancy Newport Coast. Violet made no peep from her seat in the back. I was so used to constant kid engagement, that sometimes I forgot to just let quiet children be.
“Do you want to listen to ‘It’s a Small World’ song?”
“Yes,” Violet answered, very ladylike. I hit play and we both started singing along with oomph, right until the jolly, prepubescent voices warned about the world of fears.
“I needs Small World ride!”
Many Southern California kids had an early and intimate relationship with all things Disney, something that only Orlando kids could understand.
“Not today, Sweetie. We have to show off Mama’s shirts instead.” Those things are equally fun, right?
Violet wailed. As I pulled up to the lush, gated entrance into the Newport Coast neighborhood, I cracked my window as little as possible to give my name to the gate-man, worried that people with howling toddlers weren’t allowed. But the gates slowly opened and before us, the Pacific Ocean revealed itself. We were high up on the apex of a hill, no fog.
“Look, there’s the ocean, where mermaids live.” Violet stopped crying and craned her neck to see Ariels.
I followed my GPS to a stunning mansion that looked like a bloated version of a quaint French cottage. I wanted to hate it. I wanted to think it was too big and too obnoxious and the people in it were too rich, but it was truly breathtaking and I wished it were mine, with the distant ocean dancing in the background, the blooming roses next to the shorn landscaping, and the giant wooden door that looked like something from a fairytale, vines swooping around it. Suddenly, the feeling that I stood out overtook me. Would people take me and my designs seriously or would they pity me and my TJ Maxxi skirt? Had I remembered to brush Violet’s hair?
I gathered the arsenal of bags and slung them on my shoulder.
“We going to a party, Mama?”
“Sort of.”
“I eat cake!”
“No, not that kind of party.” I took Violet’s hand and we walked toward the massive, enchanted door. I knocked.
“Come in,” a voice called, much like Ursula in her underwater cave. Come in, child. CeCe walked toward us, wearing a gold pantsuit with a sheer but sparkly floor-length robe and holding a full glass of champagne. “Wonderful to have you here.” She did the double air kiss thing as if she hadn’t previously shooed me out of her shop. Crostini crumbs rested in the corners of her cartoonish mouth. I tried not to look. She peered down at Violet. “And what is this? I didn’t realize you’d have a business partner.”
“I didn’t either, but our babysitter cancelled at the last minute,” I said, realizing that CeCe probably had no idea the catastrophe that was. “This is my daughter, Violet.”
“I much prefer roses to violets,” she said from up high, taking a sip from her champagne. One of the dangling mouth crumbs fell into her glass, making its way to the bottom in a bubble trail. My politeness withered as I tightened my grip on Violet’s hand.
“Let me show you to where your shop will be set up,” she said, walking away. I re-slung all the bags over my shoulder, picked up an unsure Violet, and balanced the shirt box on my hip while following CeCe past my dream kitchen, where a woman was setting up a handmade soap display, and then into my dream sunroom.
“Here it is,” CeCe announced, holding her hand out like a game-show hostess. The sleeve of her wizard’s robe billowed like a flag.
The sunroom was a gorgeous alcove with an oversized white couch and glass tables with fat crystal bowls sitting on them like hens. The window looked out over the shimmering ocean. I should’ve felt tranquil, but I was too tensed up just thinking about how much wrangling it would take to make sure Violet didn’t break anything or get the pristine white couch dirty. I cursed myself for not making a specific snack bag of all white foods.
“Ladies will be popping in your shop throughout the day. A little wombat told me that one of the women will be stopping by later with Jessica Biel,” CeCe explained before vanishing. Excuse me, what? A little wombat? This lady’s smoking goddamn goofballs all day long. But wait, had she also mentioned that Mrs. Justin Timberlake might show up and give her husband over to me today? I set Violet down and grabbed my phone to message Aaron.
I know you have meetings all day, but FYI, I may be making sweet sweet love to Justin Timberlake later.
I methodically laid my shirts out on the couch so that each design could be seen. I organized them in rows, by color and size. Violet was helping by climbing up on the white couch, with her shoes on.
“Oh no, Honey. We can’t get up there. We’ll get it dirty.” I struggled to unbuckle her little sandals while she pulled away from me, eyeing my immaculate display job. I would have to pull out the big guns sooner than I wanted to. “Do you want a snack?”
She aborted her tyranny and came skipping over to see what was in the pink bag, stopping at the freeze-dried green beans. She crunched away, buzz saw mouth in full effect. My stomach turned. There was no getting out of here without her making a huge mess. Thankfully CeCe hadn’t made me put down a cleaning deposit.
Two maturely-dressed middle-aged women (read: more iridescent pantsuits) walked by and peeked their heads into the sunroom. “CeCe’s brought a babysitter. She thinks of every last detail,” one said to the other.
“Oh, um. I’m not a babysitter,” I kindly explained. “I make children’s shirts and this is my own daughter.” Both ladies went silent for a moment with wide eyes and zero wrinkles. I couldn’t tell if they thought I was crazy or incredible, o
r if they were both having simultaneous strokes. I began my saleswoman pitch to hopefully make things less weird. “I make these one-of-a-kind shirts for kids. No two are alike, as you can see. Kids can wear their favorite animal or something they love, like this guitar. And I sew them myself.”
As if rehearsed, Violet paused her crunching, looked down at her own shirt and said, “I love oc-pus.” The ladies’ heads swung down toward an angelic Violet. Their faces finally slackened.
“Isn’t she darling?” one said to me. “Didn’t Candace’s friend’s sister’s daughter have a baby in the last year?” one said to the other.
“Yes. Did you know they already have a pony waiting for her?”
The other one gasped in pleasure. Then they turned to me. “Do you happen to have any shirts with horses?” I had their motherfucking number. I made a point to include a shit ton of horses in my stock, at the expense of squirrels, the poor man’s horse.
While the ladies debated the merits of pink versus coral, my phone dinged. Aaron had messaged back.
You have every right to bring sexy back with Justin Timberlake because I’ve basically been having an affair with Sheriff Hopper from Stranger Things every night this week.
At least Justin and I had Aaron’s blessing.
“Miss, I’m going to take these two here because I don’t know which size she is.” I was in awe of rich people’s love of buying gifts for people they barely knew—and in multiple sizes. But I found rich people much more tolerable when I was personally profiting off of them. I wrapped the shirts in red tissue paper and put them into a small brown paper bag with handles. I tied a strip of leftover fabric around the handles into a soft bow. It was a little polishing touch that I had come up with years ago.
“Just adorable,” one of the women said on their way out.
So far, so good. I had already made enough money to hire a cleaning lady, one time.
People trickled in and out, everyone oohing and ahhing over the uniqueness of my shirts and some monetizing their delight. It felt damn good to be seen. And paid. I was already out of horses.
As I covertly counted my money, I looked over to see Violet straining to pick up one of the glass bowls. “Those belong on the tables,” I said, rushing over to help her set it down gently. There was far too much glass on glass in this room. She changed her target, laughing and running over to the shirts. She swiped them off the couch as if her hand was a rake, and cackled. “Violet, please,” I begged, reorganizing. She went back to the bowls, put her hands on one and looked right at me, testing. “Stop,” I said sternly. I was getting impatient. So was Violet, who flopped on the floor, amid snack wrappers, and rubbed her eyes. In addition to closing in on nap time, the newness of the experience was wearing off for her. Red tissue paper had been danced with and thrown and now it was just plain annoying to be confined to a room in which she couldn’t touch anything. I was wearing down with constantly keeping one eye on her, one on glass bowls, and one on shirts, wrapping them up, and taking payments. Three eyes. I needed three god-damn eyes.
Violet lay on the floor, spinning in circles, when two chatty women who looked to be in their late thirties—and who weren’t Jessica Biel—came through the doorway. I greeted them with a little less enthusiasm than I started with two hours earlier. Both women smiled aloofly. One, a muscular blonde, was wearing ripped black skinny jeans, high-heeled booties, and an off-the-shoulder t-shirt with the words “Spiritual Gangster” across her rack. Her eye makeup was so thick that it was hard to tell what she really looked like underneath it all. She motioned to her friend. “Jen, look at these . . . Jagger would love this robot one.”
Jen was the toned-down version of her friend. She had almost the exact same blonde hair and chiseled arms, but she wore very little makeup and had on Nikes. She wasn’t responding to her Spiritual Gangster friend because she was so focused on Violet, who—for the moment—looked serene on the floor.
“She’s such a doll,” Jen said to me.
“Sometimes,” I replied, with a slight motherly chuckle. Jen’s head tilted and she looked at me as if I had said I hated my child. She clearly wasn’t a mom.
“These are just so freaking cute, I can’t even,” the Spiritual Gangster said, handling every single shirt with her bright red talons. “I’m gonna get these as favors for Atticus’s birthday party.”
Jen turned her focus away from Violet and her ungrateful mother and picked up a mermaid shirt. She rubbed the applique with her thumb. I thought I caught a wistfulness in the way she patted the shirt after putting it back with the others.
Her friend was going to town. “I should get one of these for Mari too. She’s obsessed with horses. Do you have any with horses?”
“Fresh out. But the cat is cute. I’ve found that nine times out of ten, horse lovers are also cat lovers.” I had no real facts to back this claim up.
“The cat is really cute. I love this red-striped pattern on the light blue.”
I felt a tug on my leg. It was Violet and she was rubbing her eyes again. “Mama, I wanna go home.” I picked her up, but she resisted, kicking my knees furiously. I tried to lower her safely, but she wouldn’t straighten her legs to stand. She neither wanted to be held nor put down, a mythical middle ground that made my muscles shake as I tried to force her into picking one.
“Aww, she looks tired,” Jen said. There was something in the way she looked at Violet, as if the entire world should revolve around this little dumpling and what kind of mother was I not to dote on her every need? I’d seen grandmothers act in a similar way to Jen—namely one at PetSmart a few weeks back. Maybe she and Lucile were on different sides of the same coin. This thought made me pull back and empathize, until Violet started swinging her arm of destruction at the shirts.
The Spiritual Gangster was holding at least five nights’ worth of pizza delivery in her hands—and still shopping. Rewarding a screaming child with junk food would make me a trash parent, but it was time. I dug deep in my purse for the Minions bag and handed it to Violet, whose eyes lit up. She snatched the bag from me and sat down quietly by herself, unzipping it.
“I’ll take these,” Jen’s friend said, patting a stack of shirts. I tallied up her total, took her money, and scrambled to get her bags thoughtfully tissued before Violet smashed M&Ms into the floor. My stomach growled. She wasn’t the only one who needed a snack bag.
Before I could hand over the paid-for shirts, Violet interrupted. “Wook Mama!” She had torn into the Cheetos bag and was gnawing through them at a fantastic rate. She clapped her hands, misting a light fog of Cheetos dust toward the couch. I ransacked my purse for a wipe while one of my three eyes stayed locked on her. But she was knowingly headed for the white couch with her orange-powdered fingertips leading the way. Before I could act, she thrust herself onto the spotless couch cushion.
“No!” I yelped.
Jen and her friend stood there, unable to look away. I rushed over to the couch and gently (okay, forcibly) cinched Violet’s wrists like a nabbed criminal’s. She wriggled and giggled as I managed to lift her up, thinking it was a game. A silly hogtying game. You know, totally normal.
There, on the couch, was a large streak of orange soot. I buckled, letting her run free, and scrubbed the couch furiously with the wipe intended for her hands. I looked up at the two women, who turned around immediately, pretending they’d seen nothing. The Spiritual Gangster leaned into Jen and not-so-quietly said, “That poor little girl. Dragged around while her mom works. Just like that gypsy couple in front of Home Depot with the accordion.” Jen looked back at us with concern, but it was unclear if it was more for me or for Violet. I was putting money on Violet. “Who lets their toddler eat Cheetos, anyway?” the friend added as they walked out.
The two were gone. But their words were not.
I stayed with the stain and rage-scrubbed it until my phone lit up, interrupting me. It was an actual call from Chloe, who was supposed to be picking Elliot up from school in thirty minu
tes. “Everyone okay?” I asked worriedly, hoping it wasn’t a broken bone or active shooter.
“Savannah threw up at school. I just picked her up and won’t be able to come back to grab Elliot for you. So sorry.”
Everything was falling apart around me. There would be no romp with JT. Nor selling out of inventory. I abandoned the orange skid mark and picked up Violet’s dolls, spilled M&Ms, and the larger Cheetos crumbs like I was on fast forward.
Suddenly, a gaggle of women entered my shop. They held champagne glasses and tiny toasts with something white and creamy on top, and moved as a herd. They didn’t even look in my direction. I dashed to quickly throw a shirt over the orange shame.
“Get out!” one said to the group, pointing.
“Oh my God, look at the guitars,” another added, rushing over. “Bowie would love this.” They swarmed the couch like a flock of tipsy seagulls and began grabbing the shirts. Mine mine mine.
The chaos scared Violet and she dropped le résistance and came running over to me. I needed to speak up and tell everyone that I must grab my shirts and leave, but this could be one last huge sale—the difference between a year’s worth of organic strawberries versus conventional. I dug through one of my bags and excavated the Ergo carrier. I plopped Violet in the front, our united hearts beating fast for different reasons. Her face was right in front of mine.
“Mama, I wanna go home,” she begged, rubbing her eyes hard.
“I know, Baby, we will soon,” I reassured her. I instinctively bounced as I tried not to think about Elliot standing at the pick-up line all alone, lost. I had never been a no-show at pick-up. It was one thing to let your kid down because of some unforeseen event. A flat tire? Fine. One could even argue it’s good for them. Life happens. But peddling t-shirts to pay for sanity because being a mother was more taxing than I thought it would be? Harder to justify.
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