Supermom Breaks a Nail

by Kristen Easley

  I found, as the children get older, that keeping a handle on them, the house, the chores and any semblance of self-image is getting harder to maintain.  On occasion, Nate will come home, and the house is a disaster.  He will simply inquire as to what happened and accept my sigh with a hand pointing to the children as an answer.  On other nights he will walk in, and the house is a disaster -- but now the cat is wearing a tutu; the dog is cowering under the sofa; and I am sitting on a chair, staring at a Korean news TV station (I don’t speak Korean).  The children are absent.  He sighs, grabs a beer and a takeout menu.

  After the furniture is righted and the light bulbs replaced, Nate will ask me if maybe I need help.

  “What do you mean?” I ask incredulous.

  “You know, like, maybe a cleaning lady or a babysitter to come by once a week to watch the kids during the day.”

  “Are you implying I cannot do this?”

  “No.  I just think you do so much.  I am not sure you need to do it all.  I hate to see you so work hard.”

  At this point I would usually call one of my two best friends, but Nate would hear me complaining and perhaps embellishing some of the details of what he had just said.  Since I do not need him interfering with my side of the story, I burst into tears and run out of the room and into the arms of the Mommyverse.

  (The Mommyverse is discussed in detail later.  A brief description is it is the ever-growing universe of Moms through internet, books, television, support groups and any other form of media that reaches a mom’s life.)

  I ask the Mommyverse what they would do if their ungrateful husband called them lazy and fat and unfit to mother his children as mine just had (perhaps I was paraphrasing).  The Mommyverse comes back with a resounding cry – if he thinks this is so easy, why not let him stay home with the kids all day and see how well he does?  It’s a perfect plan.  After a day of running after our children, Nate will fall to his knees as I enter the door.  He will proclaim his unwavering admiration for how hard I work each day.  He will devote his life to finding new ways to appreciate me.

  The next morning I casually tell Nate that I am making plans to go up and see a friend in another city on Saturday and could he watch the children?  He says, sure, he would love to.  Come Saturday, I pack up and head out with a kiss to all.  The children are confused but relatively unfazed by my leaving without them. 

   Twenty minutes into my drive, Nate calls.  “Do we have more apple juice?” 

  I tell him where it is.  He tells me to have fun and thanks for the information. 

  Ten minutes after that, Nate calls again. “Sorry. There is nothing I can’t feed them now; right?”  he asks.  I ask him what he means.  “Well, I remember we had to be careful about apples and honey and fish and peanuts at some point in their infancy but no longer; right?” 

  Hmm, I didn’t know he was paying attention.  I tell him the kids are fine with all foods.  He thanks me, apologizes for bothering me and tells me to have a lot of fun and not to worry about them.

  I have a delightful visit, but sometime after lunch I realize that I have not heard from Nate since the car ride up.  I picture the house in flames and my children lying on the EMT gurneys, uttering “Mom” with their last breath.  I excuse myself outside and call our home number.  Nate picks up on the first ring in a hushed voice.  I assume he is in the ER.  

  “What’s going on?  Where are you?” I ask pointedly.

  “I am home, where you called me,” he says quietly. 

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “The kids are both asleep.”

  “They’re asleep? Both of them?  Logan doesn’t nap anymore.”  I am confused.  Did he get them drunk?  On purpose?

  “I know.  But they are both out.  Don’t worry. I won’t let them sleep too long so they go to bed on time.  Are you having fun?”

  “Oh, yes, we are having a great time.  What have you guys been doing?” 

  “Don’t you worry about us,” Nate says.  “This is your day.  You just have fun.  I love you.” 

  A terrible feeling nagged me the rest of my visit.

  I return home at 5:30 as agreed.  When I walk in, the house is seemingly in order.  The freshly bathed, pajama’d kids rush me at the door.  They excitedly talk of picnics in the backyard, sliding on trash bags wetted by the hose and exciting new heroes Dad had invented.  Nate comes from the kitchen followed by a delightful aroma.  He kisses me on the cheek and asks if I am hungry.  Turns out, he had rediscovered a love for cooking while I was away.

  After dinner, Nate declares he will put the kids to bed because he has promised to finish the tale of “Masked Avenging Rodent” they created this afternoon.  When he finishes, he joins me in the living room.

  “I am so glad you got the day off,” he says, taking my hand in his.  “And thank you. This was a lot of fun for me.” 

  I burst into tears and run out of the room and into the arms of the Mommyverse. 

  Chapter Five

  Till Momdom Do We Part

  In every mother’s life lurks that one person she dreads most – the Exceptional Mom.  This is the mom who shows up everywhere on time with her children completely dressed (including both shoes).  She makes breakfast, lunch and dinner at home.  She can come up with craft ideas off the top of her head, and those completed crafts are usually museum quality.  This mom is the one who actually bakes her bake sale item.  She can tell you any and all kid-friendly activities within a 50-mile radius.  She is the mom who catches all the random items her kids put in her grocery basket before she unwittingly brings them home.  She has a fairly uniform life even with the children at home.  She is basically annoying. 

  She is also one of my two closest friends.  This should put a great deal of pressure on me.  However, the other of the two is the antithesis of the Exceptional Mom -- the “You’re Not Supposed to Do That” Mom; and that balances it all out.

  I was one of three gal pals in college – Gigi, Dawn and myself.  After college, we settled in different towns, but our bond was intact.  We were the Three Musketeers as written by Danielle Steele.  We went to college, married, moved and had our babies within months of each other.  It was as if we linked our life’s timelines together in some cosmic computer program so that we hit every milestone together. 

  We all came to the decision to stay home with our children independently.  Gigi stayed home because her mother strongly suggested it was the only way to properly raise a child, and Gigi is one of the most nonconfrontational people I know.  I stayed home to raise my son because at the salary I was making, full-time childcare would have meant I was paying to work at my job.  Dawn had not decided what to do by the time she was in her sixth month of pregnancy.  One day, she got pissed off at her boss and quit.  She told him that she was leaving to stay home and raise her child, which would be far more rewarding than working for him.  That last one sends us into gales of laughter every time.  More rewarding? Oh, that Dawn -- what a cutup!

  Since having kids, Dawn and I have had trouble measuring up to Gigi.  Her house smells of lemony cleaning products and has an immaculate floor.  Her shelves are lined with intellectually stimulating books and photos from their international journeys (with her children).  Her dishes and cooking equipment are clean and put away in their proper places. 

  In my house, cooking pots litter the backyard, and most of my silverware has been piled into the dog’s water dish.  To hide the stains and spills on my floor, I allow my family to disrobe and leave whatever has been removed to lie exactly where it falls.  This ensures that I will never find two shoes that match in a 30-minute period.  Dawn hired a nanny named Selma to help with the house and kids. 

  Gigi is perfect, but she is also short.  By “short,” I mean that someone can rest a drink on her head at parties.  I mention this only because it makes me feel better.

  Gigi installed a complex but subtle alarm system that alerts the
CIA if any unauthorized visitor is anywhere on the property.  My alarm system is my children leaving their toys scattered about the floor.  Things with bright flashing lights accompanied by shrill sounds are kept in the hallways.  This way an adult attempting to relieve themselves in the middle of the night will step on something the whole neighborhood can hear.  If we are super lucky, the sound from the toy will set the dog off. Dawn refuses to spend the money on an alarm system.  She claims her bag is packed and, if anyone breaks in, she is going to beg them to take her with them anyway.

  I came home today and had two messages on the answering machine:  one from Dawn and one from Gigi.  Given how much I did not accomplish today, I decide to call Dawn first.  Comparing myself to Gigi right now might push me over the edge. 

  “Hey,” I say when Dawn answers.

  "So you or me first?”  she asks.

  “You. I need to feel better about myself.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but the twins were great today, and I finally got around to making that felt board with the story characters I have been talking about.”

  “Really?!”  I say with a start.

  “No,” she says laughing. “I stubbed my toe on one of their trucks they had left out and it put me in such a bad mood that I ignored them all day.  I tried to get Selma to ignore them too, but she never listens to anything I say.  I think I’ll fire her.”

  “Good. Then you can raise your own kids.” 

  We both laugh for several minutes at the thought of Dawn raising her own kids.

  Dawn continues, “Did the Shrimp call you today?’

  “Yes, I just heard her message – is something up?”  I ask.

  “I dunno.  I left her a message.  No call back yet.”

  “I was going to call her next – you want to go first.”

  “Yeah, let me… Hey!  Uhm…you…which one are you… no, not you… your brother… SELMA!  One of the twins has the mini-vac again… "

  “Dawn?”

  “I should probably be involved in this.  Why don’t you call Gigi. Let me know what she says.”

  “I am sure one of her well-behaved children saved the world, and she needle-pointed the story of how they did it to hang in the hallway as kind of a Bayeux Sampler.”

  “In that case, save it until tomorrow...  NO!  Not the cat!  SELMA!”

  I reach for the pizza delivery menu, but my hand accidentally grabs an open bottle of Chardonnay instead.  I call Gigi.

  “Hello?” she answers.

  “Hey, Gigi.  It’s me.”

  “Oh, thank you for calling back.  Thank both you and Dawn for calling me back.”  Gigi says with relief.  Her tone is less chipper than usual.

  “What’s going on?”  I continue.

  “Oh, my mother dropped by for a visit today.”

  “Oh.”  I say.  “How nice?”

  “Yes, well, of course it’s always great for Sonnet and Schubert to see their grandmother.”

  “How are you, Gigi?”

  “It’s hard, having her here.  She was just always so… perfect as a mother.  I am not sure she understands that not all of us are.”

  My mouthful of chardonnay sprays out of my mouth with a cough.  “Us?!” I ask.

  “No, I don’t mean that you aren’t perfect.  You are.  It is just that you and Dawn see me for who I am – a regular person.  You don’t care about my flaws.”  Gigi says with a catch in her voice.

  Flaws?  Gigi?  Surely I misheard.  Maybe she said “awes” except that Gigi usually makes sense when she talks.

  “Gigi, to us, you are perfect.  Regardless.”

  “That’s why I love you guys.  Thank you.  I feel better.  I knew I would.  You guys are my salvation,” she says with a sigh.  “Listen. Sonnet is attempting to cook dinner.  I need to go turn the oven on for her.  Thank you.  I love you.”

  “I love you too.  So does Dawn.  She will call you as soon as she bails her twins out of jail.”

  She laughs.  We hang up.

  I look to Logan, who is covered in tape and smacking a wooden spoon on the tomato sauce can.  I think of Sonnet cooking and sigh.  Then I think of Gigi trying to measure up to her mother.  I guess we all have an Exceptional Mom in our lives. 

  Chapter Six

  Lying on the Couch

  I have a therapist.  I see him on a regular basis.  I call him even more.  He is a wonderful man, very calming and understanding.  He always knows just what to say to help me out of a crisis.  Just the other day, I called him to tell him I couldn’t take it anymore.  I was so tired, and nobody appreciated me, not like him at least.  If it weren’t for my selfless devotion to the betterment of my family, I would cash it all in for a hut in Tahiti.  He told me to relax, that many moms have this feeling.  He said it was our unending devotion to our families that held everything together.  He went on to say that our families would be lost without us.  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief – this was all I needed to hear. “Thank you, Doctor, and since I have you on the phone, could I change Logan’s five-year- old check up to the end of the month?”  He connected me with his receptionist.

  You see, our pediatrician (to whom I refer as Dr. Godsend) has been our kids’ doctor since Logan was six months old.  I did not know that I was supposed to have a pediatrician when I had a baby.  I knew babies had them; I just thought you got one in the take-home kit the hospital gave you.  As I lay on the table after Logan was taken from me, I heard one of the nurses ask for a pediatrician’s name.  There was a silence.  All eyes were on me.  Sure they were going to fire me from Momdom before I even got out of the stirrups; I said the name of the pediatrician I had seen growing up in Seattle.  They looked from doctor to nurse and back at me.  I got panicky and gave them a character’s name from the TV series Rouge Doctors, Inc.  

  What do they do to derelict mothers who don’t get pediatricians for their babies?  Would I not be given my kid until I found one?   As I started to cry for the fourth time since giving birth (fifteen minutes now), my OB yelled out a name.  The doctor Logan was assigned retired five months after I had my baby.  So twice in six months, my fledgling son was without proper medical care, and I had nowhere to turn.  I called Gigi to confer.  She called some moms she knew in my area, and they all said they LOVED their pediatrician, Dr. Godsend.  But he was not taking any new patients.  It turns out, if you sit on a pediatrician’s doorstep and sob with your screaming newborn long enough, they will take you on as a patient.  You just need to know the system.

  I think Nate is jealous of Dr. Godsend.  Part of the problem may be I use the term “Godsend” in reference to our pediatrician and not my husband.  I come home from Dr. Godsend’s office and say how wonderful he is with the children and how he can exactly read my feelings.  I tell Nate how Dr. Godsend knows just the right thing to say to make me feel better.  He really listens to me.  We had a slight disagreement over our holiday gift to Dr. Godsend.  Nate suggested I make a donation in Dr. Godsend’s name to a charity he supports.  I, in turn, went out and bought him a new car.  Well, I tried, but dealerships don’t take airline miles as payment.  Either way I was justified, and here’s an example:

  My anxiety attacks started coming regularly when Logan was three and started going to preschool.  I thought Logan was an active but generally sweet little boy, who had yet to find his volume button. The preschool saw him as an unruly hellion who could not follow instructions.  They complained that Logan refused to sit passively for 20 minutes after a carbohydrate-laden snack.  I complained that my husband was the same way.  They were not amused.  They pointed out that Logan had a peculiar habit of running during “outside play.”   I was stumped since that is what I thought they were supposed to do during “outside play.”  Clearly I had my work cut out for me. 

  Every day I would receive that look -- the one the teacher gives you that tells you she needs to speak with you about your child.  I would go over and ask, “How was h
e?” bracing myself for the answer.  A toy was thrown, sand flew, squiggling took place, pushing, not putting toys away – you name it.  Whatever the offense could be, my little Logan committed it.  As the “How to Raise a Kid” books suggest, I discussed Logan’s behavior with him in very calm, soothing tones.  I did not imply that anyone thought he was wrong but perhaps he could rethink his actions so that he could form more loving relationships with those around him.  When the discussion did not produce any significant change, I deprived him of sweets and TV.  I sat with Logan and watched countless hours of video on how to be a good little boy (though all little boys are special, they said). 

  I called Gigi and Dawn about my miscreant’s behavior, but they played the supportive friends and did not really give me any direction.  In a moment of poor judgment, I broke down and called The Mothers.  I whimpered into the phone that clearly something had gone terribly wrong with one of the strands of DNA (probably Nate’s) and my child was destined to end up in jail by high school.  I carefully recounted the endless offenses committed.  As usual, The Mothers had their far out, archaic beliefs that followed the general thoughts of “He sounds like a little boy to me.”  Obviously I had only one resource, I made an appointment with Dr. Godsend.

  I forced Nate to stay with our daughter so I could give this situation proper attention.  Logan and I went to the office and sat in our colorful plastic molded seats.  I rested my head against the wall behind me and looked at the ceiling, wondering if God was going to get around to my repeated asking of “Why me?”  Logan found some books and started reading.  I see now that his was a more productive use of time.  Something in the book tickled him, and he began to laugh.  By the time Dr. Godsend came in, Logan was laughing uproariously at some dog splashing in a puddle.  I threw my hand out in his direction and looked at the doctor as if to say “See?!?”

  “What’s the problem?” Dr. Godsend asked. 

  I went on to chronicle the last nine years of my life which included marrying; birthing children; giving up my career and, it seems, all claims a normal life.  To be helpful, I peppered the story with my own theories about certain behaviors and where they came from (probably Nate).  At the end I was emotionally spent.  I steeled myself for the barrage of questions about to come that would be used to judge my son’s mental state.  Dr. Godsend started: