The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell

by Heather Balog

  I stand in the middle of my daughter’s room, typical teenage shrine to pop culture and anti-parenthood, wondering what I should do. I have trapped Evan in his crib at the moment, but he is becoming quite the escape artist lately so I have a limited time frame to work with. I need to get in and out fast and not obsess about the dust.

  As I am pondering whether or not my princess of teenaged angst actually has a diary, my eyes fall upon her cell phone, conveniently curled up in her pile of sheets and comforter on the bed. My heart does a flip. I can’t believe my good fortune. Allie is never without her cell phone. She even takes it with her into the bathroom when she showers. Roger had joked that she might need to have it surgically removed from her hand (Allie was not amused by her father’s joke at the time).

  While my heart is bouncing around uneasily in my chest, my hand begins to shake as I take a tentative step forward and reach out to detangle the phone from the sheets. With my hand touching the black rhinestone case, I hesitate. Part of me is dying to know what is going on in my oldest daughter’s world, but the other part of me is petrified that I am going to find out something that a mother wouldn’t want to know about her child. She has been so cold and distant lately, I can only assume the worst.

  No going back, Amy. If you read her texts, what you find out will be emblazoned on your brain forever. If she is up to no good, you’re going to have to act on it. You won’t be able to ignore it and she will not only hate you for that, she will know you snooped. Maybe you should just leave it alone and hope that she has learned something from you over the years. In fact, you’re going to have to trust her enough to send her out in the world sometime. Why not start that trust today?

  My curiosity wins out over my pragmatic side as I tell my conscience to fuck off. I push the button to retrieve her home screen. Of course, the phone is now asking for a password. I chew on my lip for a second, thinking about what Allie would use as a passcode. The house number? Her locker combination? And then it hits me. She is a self-centered teenager. What’s the most important thing to a kid?

  I quickly tap in 1013, Allie’s birthday, October 13th. The home screen disappears and all of Allie’s icons dance in front of me, daring me to open them. Score one for Mama.

  I scroll down until I see the text message icon and tap it lightly. Several names and message threads pop up in front of me, including one labeled “Victoria”. After a quick glance, I see that none of the other names are friends I would suspect of leading my daughter off the path of righteousness. I also note with interest that no boy names were present on this list. I wonder if Allie is purposely deleting any conversations she is having with boys as an added security measure.

  She doesn’t trust me? What did she think? I was going to snoop? I contemplate defensively. Until I remember, I am snooping. Oops.

  As I tap the message thread with Victoria’s name, the conversation spills out on the screen in gray and blue conversation bubbles. Allie has a different phone than I do, so it takes me a minute to figure out which bubble belongs to Allie and which one belongs to Victoria. This is unfortunate because I feel a tugging on my leg at that exact moment.

  I glance down to see my darling toddler covered from head to toe in baby powder. Oh, and naked. He is completely naked.

  “Ugh! Evan!” I screech. I stare at the naked, powdery baby in front of me and then back at the phone. He looks like Pigpen but instead of dirt following him, he has clouds of white powder drifting off his body. He squeals with delight at my reaction and shoves his fingers into his mouth, drool escaping from both corners. I gaze at the cell phone with dismay.

  Damn. Mess trumps snooping. I’m sure that rule is in the Mommy 101 handbook that I have not received a copy of.

  I scoop up the squirming child and tuck Allie’s phone into the pocket of my oversized hoodie. I can deal with that later, I suppose. It’s only…I glance at the clock…10:30. Holy crap, how did it get so late already?

  ~TEN~

  Allie’s cell phone rings in my pocket as I am changing the baby.

  “Mrs. Maxwell?” says the voice on the other end.

  “Yes?” I reply, feeling quite cautious.

  “This is Mrs. George, the guidance counselor at Allie’s school.”

  I brace myself for terrible news. Allie is in trouble for some reason. I will have to go down to the school or worse, bail her out of jail. Roger will be furious.

  “I just wanted to call to congratulate you on having such a wonderful child,” the woman on the other end of the phone is telling me.

  “What?” I am in shock as I nearly drop the phone.

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. George is saying. “She is student of the month. We decided to choose the student who has had the most positive effect on her peers and has done the most volunteer work-”

  “Hold on,” I interrupt. “Volunteer work? What volunteer work?” I am very confused.

  “Oh, you probably haven’t heard. That’s why she’s been so secretive lately. She started a group for kids who are bullied at school and as popular student, she mentors them.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful!” I exclaim.

  “It certainly is,” Mrs. George agrees. “So you don’t have to worry about her any longer.

  “Mama!” I am unceremoniously splashed in the face waking me from my daydream. I stare down at my naked toddler in the bath. Evan has a goofy, toothy grin that reminds me all too much of Roger. Except Evan is much cuter.

  After dunking Evan in his second bath of the day, I clean him up, dress him, tuck him under my arm like a football, and head downstairs. The day is quickly getting away from me as I realize it is already a quarter to twelve and Evan will be squealing for his lunch at any moment.

  I force the protesting baby into the high chair as he repeatedly tells me no, no, no and bashes me in the head with his tiny fists. I manage to subdue him with a chunky board book that he promptly inserts into his mouth and begins to suck on. Quickly reaching into the cabinet, I withdraw a microwavable container of mac and cheese. After filling it with the required amount of water and placing it in the microwave to cook, I retrieve an apple from the fridge, peel it and cut it into tiny pieces. As soon as the mac and cheese is done, I remove it, spilling the water and scalding my hand. I yelp with pain but ignore the blister starting to bubble on my finger. I place my now cold cup of coffee in the microwave to warm up and stir the mac and cheese before pouring Evan a Sippy cup of milk and snapping the lid on tightly. I taste the mac and cheese, burn my tongue and promptly stick the container in the freezer for a few minutes. All this while keeping an eye on my child to ensure that he does not swallow whole chunks of his book.

  Why do I bore you with the minutiae of my day? Oh, it’s only in case you are like Roger and are assuming that at noon I’m in the bubble bath with a glass of wine while I watch Lifetime Original Movies on my iPad.

  I finally finish feeding the baby with one hand and sipping my coffee with the other. (I burn my tongue on that, too). I offer Evan the plate with apples which he accepts greedily. This allows me a few minutes to scarf down a stick of string cheese and stare at the remaining contents of the fridge. And then I realize with panic, there is nothing defrosting for dinner. Crap.

  I am debating about whether to order pizza or Chinese when the shrill ring of the phone interrupts my menu planning. Evan, who has been shoveling apples into his mouth at warp speed, pauses mid shovel, his eyes brightening immediately.

  “Phone!” he shrieks, opening and closing his tiny little hands with excitement. “Me phone!”

  I shake my head as I grab the phone and check the caller ID before answering. It’s the elementary school. I sigh.

  Damn it. What now? Lexie is notorious for bothering the school nurse with ridiculous made up ailments. Lexie will not only go down to the clinic for every single minor injury that befalls her, she visits the nurse with cuts and scrapes that had happened over the weekend, just so she can get five minutes of Mrs. O’Connor’s attention. If Lex
ie has to fart, she goes to the nurse. If Lexie’s zipper is stuck on her pants, she visits the nurse. If Lexie has broccoli stuck in her teeth, she goes to the nurse. She has been known to stalk the nurse as she enters the school. Last week, she met her at her car, starling the poor woman so much that she spilled coffee down the front of her blouse. I’m pretty sure Lexie is the bane of her existence. I make a mental note to get Mrs. O’Connor a nice gift basket for Christmas as I answer the phone.

  “Hello, Mrs. O’ Connor,” I say, smartly preempting her greeting.

  There are a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone before I hear throat clearing and a male voice.

  “Um, no, Mrs. Maxwell. It’s not Mrs. O’Connor. It’s Mr. Rice…the principal of the school?” He poses the statement like it is a question, as if he isn’t actually sure if he is the principal or not and he’s asking me to confirm. Mr. Rice is a very timid man with a stuttering problem; why he is the principal of an elementary school is beyond me. He should have been an accountant. He isn’t able to say no to any of the kids and they walk all over him. Not that Roger rules the high school with an iron fist, but he is a lot stricter with discipline than Mr. Rice is.

  “Oh, yes,” I reply, confused as to why Mr. Rice would be calling me. Did Lexie annoy the nurse so much that she doesn’t even want to call me herself anymore? I am slight hurt by Mrs. O’Connor’s betrayal. Usually we use the daily phone call as a chance to commiserate on Lexie’s obnoxiousness.

  “Um, Mrs. Maxwell, I hate to bother you, but I need you to come pick Colton up from school,” Mr. Rice says in a very apologetic voice.

  Colton?

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rice. Did you say Colt?” He must be mistaken. Silly Mr. Rice. He means Lexie. I begin to wonder what he has in his coffee that he can’t tell the difference between them.

  “Yes, um, Colton,” Mr. Rice repeats with a fair amount of throat clearing.

  “Is he sick?” I ask with concern as I quickly grab for a paper towel to wipe up the baby.

  “Um, not exactly,” Mr. Rice tells me. “Actually, I…um, well, I apologize but I had to suspend him. I, um, spoke with Mr. Maxwell first, of course, and he agreed-

  Wait! My mind is shouting at me. Mr. Maxwell? Roger? Suspending Colt?

  Feeling as if I am dangling in an alternate reality, I grab ahold of the nearest kitchen chair and sink into it. Evan is now attempting to escape his highchair with tremendous dexterity. I ignore him as I ask the principal, “Why would you have to suspend him, Mr. Rice?” My tone is not polite. It is more like pissed off Mama Bear.

  Mr. Rice clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable with this conversation. I wonder how often he needs to make similar phone calls to parents.

  Hi, Mr. or Mrs. So and So. You have to pick up your son/ daughter, he/she has been a bad boy/girl. Oh, yes, I know…not your little darling.

  Now granted, I know Colt is no angel. At home he can be quite the wild child. But I highly doubt he acts like that in school. Okay, maybe most parents are in denial when they get a phone call from the principal’s office (as Roger claims they often are), but this really doesn’t sound like my little boy. And Mr. Rice spoke to Roger already? Why didn’t Roger call me? Or text me to give me a heads up?

  “Um, well, the truth is Mrs. Maxwell, Colton got into a fight today on the playground. With Jimmy Donoghue,” Mr. Rice explains. I can practically hear him blushing.

  Oh crap. I was supposed to take care of that this morning, wasn’t I? I was so concerned with spying on Allie that I had forgotten all about the promise I had made to Colt that morning. Damn, damn, damn. There goes the Mother of the Year award.

  “Oh no. What happened?” I am envisioning the much larger Jimmy Donoghue pummeling my sweet baby boy.

  “Apparently he pushed Jimmy off the playground swing without provocation,” Mr. Rice stammers.

  “What?” I squawk. Without provocation my ass. That Jimmy kid was trouble.

  “Mrs. Maxwell, I tried to talk to him but he was crying inconsolably. I don’t know what happened so I called your husband at the high school and Mrs. Donoghue is on her way in…” Mr. Rice is definitely stuttering now. I cringe with the thought of Cammi Donoghue; he must be besides himself.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I snap as I promptly ended the phone conversation. I jump to my feet, pull Evan out of the highchair, and set him on the ground as I stick my hand in my hoodie, searching for Allie’s phone. It’s missing. I must have dropped it upstairs.

  I head to the hall closet to retrieve my jacket when I realize that Evan is also nowhere to be found.

  “Evan?” I call out, panic creeping into my voice. Losing the baby would be a perfect cap to your day, wouldn’t it, Amy?

  As my eyes are desperately scanning the living room, I hear a giggle coming from the corner. Peeking behind the side of the couch, I find my son, chubby little hands grasping Allie’s phone. How the hell did he get that?

  “Phone!” he squeals with glee as he drools all over the screen. I flinch, knowing that the moisture will ruin the phone and we’ll end up shelling out another $300 for a new one. I make a play for the phone as my cunning two year old child continues to hold it out of my reach.

  “No, no, Evan!” I gasp. Please God don’t let him delete anything before I get to read it! After a very short game of “grab it if you can”, I manage to pry Evan’s grubby fingers from the phone. I wipe it on my shirt and then tap the screen, relieved to see that it is still locked.

  Then I remember that I haven’t accomplished what I intended to do and read the texts from Victoria. I am very tempted to have a seat, just for a moment and peruse Allie’s phone. But damn it, Colt is probably a blubbery mess in the principal’s office.

  He deserves to sit there and stew for a few minutes, I consider. Getting into a fight! What kind of Neanderthal is he? But he is still only six and I didn’t know the details of this “fight”. That Jimmy twit probably provoked him. The mother inside of me is being pulled in two different directions once again, torn between getting insight into my sulky teenager and dealing with my other child’s school yard antics.

  Colt wins out over Allie as I toss the phone into my purse, out of the baby’s reach. I scoop Evan up into my arms and quickly wipe his face with the sleeve of my hoodie. Yes, it is disgusting, but I don’t have time to fight with him over soap and water. My poor baby is in the principal’s office for heaven’s sake!

  “Come on, buddy,” I crone soothingly as I coax him into the lightweight jacket that he detests. As I attempt to hold him down, he is struggling to pull his arms out of the sleeves while I struggle to force them back in. Sweat is rolling down my back by the time I manage to get the jacket zipped up so I decided to forgo my own jacket.

  We dash out of the house, Evan protesting his change of schedule and me attempting to explain to a toddler why we are leaving instead of indulging in his usual afternoon repertoire of crappy children’s television programming. Yeah, that’s right. I plop him down in front of the TV for an hour every afternoon. Hey, before you judge me, try to entertain a toddler all day while simultaneously doing laundry, cooking dinner and keeping your sanity.

  “Your brother has been a bad boy at school and Mommy needs to go pick him up from the principal’s office,” I explain as I lean on Evan with my elbow in attempts to strap him into the car seat. “You can imagine how embarrassing this must be for Mommy, with Daddy being a principal and all…” Evan does not care about my predicament as he continues to fight me. More sweat and tears ensue from both of us. Finally, I have him strapped in, I have me strapped in, and we are rolling out of the driveway.

  As we pull into the street, I notice Jason climbing out of his silver sedan that is parked on the street.

  Hmmm, that’s bizarre. Wonder what he’s doing home in the middle of the day?

  I immediately chastise myself, Jason’s warning echoing in my head. Stop it, Amy! No more spying on the neighbors.

  I resist the urge to look
back at Jason in the rearview mirror and arrive at the elementary school in record time I carefully tuck my minivan in between two other minivans parked at the curb in front of the school. How cliché. The school is like a minivan magnet. The other minivans are poorly parked; one is riding up the curb, the other is almost in the middle of the street.

  As I unbuckle myself, I recognize the Mercedes minivan parked haphazardly in front of me. It belongs to our neighbor, Jimmy’s mother. I am, of course, silently seething.

  You can have a minivan or a Mercedes, you twit. You can’t have both. It’s like you can have a clean house or kids. Not both. You make the rest of us poor schmucks look…well, like poor schmucks.

  As I am unstrapping Evan, I wonder how Cammi can possibly afford all her extravagances. She is a stay at home mom just like me and her husband is a teacher at the high school. Yet, she always is dressed in the latest fashions, belongs to the country club and always spends plenty of time at the spa. Not to mention her surgical procedures. I realize she only has one child, but Roger and I must be doing something wrong because they seem to have a ton of money that we don’t. Even more reason to hate her.

  I lumber up the school’s front walk, Evan wriggling to break free under one arm, his massive diaper bag tucked under the other. The diaper bag strap broke three weeks ago and I left it in the car to remind myself to pick up a new one but so far, um, yeah…I have completely forgotten to do that. Must make post it note…

  I ring the doorbell of the school’s front entrance with my elbow and am promptly buzzed in without the usual interrogation that I am subjected to. No who are you here to see or what can I do for you in an exasperated tone like I normally get when I’m struggling at the front door with Evan in tow. I think the secretary, Mrs. Morris, gets a perverse thrill in watching me squirm while going through her litany of questions. She obviously has control issues. I guess the secretary is the one watching Colt right now and she is eager to rid herself of him.

  I step into the main office and immediately can see my assessment is correct. Mrs. Morris wears her usual Ann Taylor sweater set with matching scowl while tucked in the corner of the room on an orange plastic chair is Colt, simpering and sniveling. Loudly. Boogers are running down his beat red face, tears trickling into his lap. In the other corner of the small office sits a smug Jimmy Donoghue, shooting dirty looks at Colt, ice pack pressed up against a swollen lip but none worse for the wear. He is smirking underneath that ice pack, I just know it.