That night I called Dawn. It was no use going to Gigi on this one. My self-esteem had bottomed out. I told her about Addison’s graduation and my talk with the other moms. I asked what she did for parties.
“Oh, we blew out the doors for the twins’ preschool graduation party.”
“You did?”
“Yeah – the Circus Theme, remember?”
“The one with the animals and the professional clowns?”
“Yep, almost had a high wire act across the telephone poles, but the City pulled the permits at the last minute.”
“For their preschool graduation. Why?”
“Honey, you forget. With my twins, this may be the only graduation I attend.”
For Tabby’s last birthday, I went to a park with some other families and relied on the playground to entertain the kids. Was I denying my children the inalienable right to celebration? To date, I had not celebrated anything aside from birthdays. How was I to know Logan’s first tooth loss should have been heralded to the world? I am thinking of digging it out, reinserting it and doing the whole thing over.
A few months back I was waiting for Logan’s class to get out for the day. I was standing next to Petunia and Gladiola’s mom. To make conversation, I asked her for some birthday party ideas. She panicked.
“Oh! I am so bummed you brought that up – I am totally unprepared!”
“You? Really?” I asked, incredulous.
“Oh, Lord, yes. I have no idea what the theme is going to be. I mean, I have the cake ordered from Celebrities Buy Our Cakes. Party Planners to the Stars is contracted, but until they get the theme, how can they customize the gift bags? Of course, I have the bouncy house reserved.”
“When is their birthday?”
She shudders, “August.”
Then I shudder, “It’s still January, right?”
“Yes,” she said, wide eyed. I left her and went to the bank.
I opened “Celebrations” savings accounts for both my kids. I was covered for graduations: Tabby’s Sweet Sixteen and Logan’s Studly Eighteen (this may not be an actual right-of-passage, but I was taking no risks). The nice man at the bank set everything up and looked up at me with a smile of anticipation.
“How much for the Big One?”
“Big One? What Big One? Who Big One?” I asked.
“Your daughter’s wedding?”
Do they make a bouncy house that big?
Chapter Eighteen
Open House
I think the thing that scares me most these days is when the phone rings and the person on the other end of the receiver says, “Oh, I will just pop over for about five minutes.” As I exclaim my excitement of an impromptu get-together, I look around my house in horror. Somehow, unbeknownst to me, a Toyland Megastore’s delivery truck was rerouted and dumped its contents on my living room floor. No worries. I will merely shove the entirety of the living room into the kids’ rooms and shut the door. Oops, the truck got in there too. Maybe I could put it into my room? I’ll just say that I have unfolded laundry in there and giggle in embarrassment. Unfortunately, the laundry story is true, and the mound of clothes waiting to be put away on my bed is threatening to crush me.
Perhaps this mess will fit in the kitchen cupboards? Oh, good, they are empty! Because the children have recently emptied their entire contents on to the kitchen floor. Nuts. I slip on the baking mix blanketing my floor. Right before I crack my head on the jam-smeared counter, I think:
“Maybe we can have a nice chat in the backseat of the car?”
A few questions come to mind. First, what the hell do I do all day if my house looks like this? Second, how can I peg this on the either Nate or The Mothers? And, last, what is acceptable house presentation when someone – especially a fellow mom – drops by?
In my SWOC days and before I could afford an actual cleaning crew, I would scrub my tiles with a toothbrush on the eve of an impending visit. It didn’t matter who was coming. I would don night vision goggles to get that last dust bunny in the corner. After I married, I maintained this level of precision in my visitor preparedness by simply no longer inviting so many people over. After I became a mother, I realized that my days of a sparkling house for visitors were numbered and that Nate would not agree to us being shut-ins. So I developed a new rule for visitors: I would do the massive clean for a person visiting for the first time – first impression and all. After that, my efforts would decrease with each subsequent visit.
This seemed to work for a while. I did have to reconsider my efforts when The Mothers pulled a fictile piece of what I can only guess was cheese off of the arm of my sofa. These days, a visitor is fairly lucky if I make a path for them through the toys and clothes that litter my floor. Baking mix on some part of their clothes is a given.
Unfortunately, mothers are women, and nobody has found a better bar by which to measure ourselves than our fellow women. So if Peggy Perfect is walking on gleaming floors at her house, you better make sure you are too. I always make the same disclaimer “Oh, please do come over – but be prepared. My house is a mess” and then I lock the children in the closet, tie the dog to a pole and use him as a push broom to get everything under furniture. I am a master at spot cleaning. I can zap any splotch adorning my floor into submission in no time flat. And if the spot-cleaning doesn’t work? Throw a rug over it
And those times when I do put the effort? The times that I have broken out cleaning supplies and gloves and towels reserved for the act of cleaning? I scrub and scrape and vacuum and dust and do everything I ever saw The Mothers do in my youth to produce a house worthy of visitors. As soon as the visiting mom crosses the threshold, a swipe of what you hope to high heaven is chocolate pudding that has been streaked across a perfectly white wall stands out like the Vegas strip at night. In all the hours you disinfected every surface, how did this glaringly obvious sign of your inadequacies disguise itself?
So I gave up. Perky Playtime Music Tables serve as end tables. Giant Buddy Bears act as wingback chairs (with the right draping). I send people their drinks and appetizers in Tinker the Traveled Train cars. Kid Chaos is the new Shabby Chic. If people need a plate, I have old album covers that aren’t being used. Coaster? Why? Having the house look like a carnival threw up in it reflects my life just fine. If I wanted to put on an air of sophistication, I would need to read something a smidge above the intellectual musings of OK! magazine anyway.
If Perfect Peggy’s gleaming floors make you feel inferior, just start a rumor that her house has rats.
Chapter Nineteen
Guerilla Warfare
Here is an interesting conundrum: You have this amazing partner. You enjoy having sex with this amazing partner. The sex is amazing. The sex is fun. The sex produces children. The children are desired results of the sex. When the children producing ceases, the fun sex is still desired. The children, produced from the sex, do everything in their power to prevent the fun sex. Why? Do they not see how much happier Mom is after she and Dad have one of their “Talks” behind closed doors? Why?
Here are a few ways in which Nate and my sex life has changed since our children have come into being:
First, our language of love is less melodic and more utilitarian. Nate and I used to take each other’s hands over a candle-lighted table and mouthed words of desire and love to each other. The other day I was wearing a T-shirt that was too tight. Nate pointed and said, “Hi, girls!” That’s about it for foreplay these days. Instead of “I just had to wake you up because I could not take another minute without you in my arms” has become “Wait. Is it Wednesday already?”
Second, is the amount of time we devote to the act. Pre-kids, we would invest an entire night to being together. Now we slip it in between items on our to-do list. An odd phenomenon has occurred as a resu
lt: a Pavlovian response to the theme song of our children’s favorite show “Sure You Can!” By some mystic coincidence Nate and I complete most of our morning tasks right around the time this show comes on. So with the kids perfectly occupied by the “Can Doers” for 30 minutes, we look at each other and sneak off for about seven minutes (let’s not candy-coat it). I have never seen “Sure You Can!” but I would nominate it for a Peabody Award.
The third change is in execution. Instead of a slow passionate expression of our love, we hope to have sex with as little effort and time involved as possible. The other day, Logan came looking for us. We thought we had a moment, but we underestimated a toddler’s desire to see “That Silly Mouse” for the 477th time. We were engaged in our room when we heard:
“Moooom?” and the soft padding of feet.
Silence followed. We thought we were clear to resume. Soon our bedroom door opened partially and then slowly shut. We convinced ourselves that would be our only interruption. A few minutes later, the door burst open, and Logan came scrambling up on our bed.
“MOM!” he said excitedly.
“What do you need, Logan?!” I asked securing my grandmother’s quilt over any exposed flesh.
My son threw a catalogue next to me and pointed to a picture for a specially designed four-step ladder meant for elderly dogs.
“We need this for Scruffy.” he said, determined.
“No, we don’t,” I countered.
“Yes we do,” he pursued.
“Scruffy is not an old dog, and he can get on the bed just fine – see.” I said pointing at the aforementioned Scruffy who was now sitting at the foot of the bed licking Nate’s calf.
“No, he needs it.”
“Logan, we do not need to get that for Scruffy. Maybe when he is an old man dog and he cannot bounce up on the bed, but right now he is fine.”
“But Mooommmmm!”
Nate jumped in. “Fine, Logan. We will get it – now go check on your sister.”
Logan left victorious. Scruffy came up and dropped his saliva-laden chew toy next to my ear. I tried to ignore him; so he nosed the disgusting piece of rope closer to me, wetting my cheek. Tabitha came into the room and began spinning down the side of the bed until she fell over, taking my alarm clock with her. I turned to Nate and said, “I think we are done here.”
He looked at the fallen Tabitha and Scruffy who had gotten the rope wedged between the headboard and the mattress and was growling furiously.
“We’ll just say you owe me,” he said, robing himself.
“Fine,” I said. “And we will say the same for you.” To punctuate my point, I pressed Logan’s catalog, now turned to the jewelry section, into his chest.
He laughed and grabbed Tabby’s stuffed cat and began to playfully chase her with it. Her squeals almost made up for my lost morning.
Scruffy never did get his ladder. I did get my jewelry.
Chapter Twenty
Feeling Sexy
Sometimes I have good mornings. Maybe I have stayed on my diet a bit more than usual. Maybe my hair hit a high point – something that makes me feel a little sexier than the day before. On these days, I like to act on this feeling and milk it for all it is worth. So I do what I did in my SWOC days, I put on those jeans that I usually cannot wear (without others exclaiming “Oh, dear.”) I opt for a top that shows a little more skin (SWOC days – this meant a little cleavage. Mom days – this mean my collarbone finally gets some sunlight.) I fluff the hair and even find the will to slap a little gloss on the pucker. On these days, I feel good. In my SWOC days, I carried this feeling until bedtime. In Mom days, it lasts until breakfast.
I sashay out of the bedroom in my come-hither jeans and maybe a shoe with a small heel. Logan has decided to make pancakes but never got past the baking mix. He, Tabby, the dog, the counter and the bench in the foyer are dusted in white powder mix (seriously, what is their obsession with the damn baking mix?!?) With the tablespoon of mix that actually landed in the bowl, he added seven cups of water and is vigorously whirling it with a spatula. A few random drops hit my hair, to be discovered later.
At the mall, I walk to the car, and a trio of dapper young businessmen gives me a shy smile as I pass. I feel quite sassy. I don’t see the chocolate handprint on my left breast until I start the ignition. At lunch, I notice the waiter glancing at my mouth. I use many words that cause my lips to purse and bat my eyes. Finally he asks me if I am bleeding. I don’t think so. He points to my chin. Why, yes, it appears I am bleeding. I can only guess it is some pimple that got scratched inadvertently. He gives me extra whipped cream on my dessert. I take his pity. The rest of my day goes along these lines.
I don’t know what happens. Nate walks in after nine hours of work, which includes three grueling meetings and LA traffic both ways and looks sexily disheveled. I make it out of the shower and people start asking if I feel all right. I was never a beauty queen. I held my place as wingman to all my pretty friends, but at least I was clean.
The Mothers used to set their hair with those giant rollers and tie a scarf around it and ran errands. They looked cool. When they removed their rollers, their gleaming hair tumbled across their shoulders. They slipped on one of those floor-length dresses moms in the 70s wore and kohled their eyes. By the time they opened the door to our returning dads’ with a martini in hand, they looked like they stepped out of a Halston ad.
If I put rollers in my hair, at some point I am forced under the couch to retrieve an errant ball or behind a chest of drawers to pick up a rotting banana. When I come back up, my rollers have acted as a magnet for cobwebs and dust. The dog runs from me in horror. Interjecting myself between two brawling children will result in various blows and hair-pulling – mine. By the time I go to get the rollers out, they are so snaggled with hair I have to cut them out or wear them until my hair decides to fall out on its own.
I can’t walk around with a coffee cup without fear of someone throwing change in it.
So I have cut off our cable and all magazine subscriptions that might show a female form. I come home, slip into some comfortable pajamas, peel the candy off my cheek and flop down on the couch. Nate comes in and stands there just staring at me. When I meet his eyes, he smiles.
“What?” I ask.
“The way the light is hitting you right now. You look amazing.”
I wave him off.
He sits next to me on the couch and kisses me gently. “Honestly, you just keep getting more beautiful with age. Every woman you know must envy you.”
I lay my head into his chest. Kids must be a good look for me.
Chapter Twenty-One
MINE!
Among the various religious, political and social topics Nate and I discussed prior to marriage, we agreed that one of us would stay home to raise the children. We decided this. It was not an ultimatum or a concession. Since Nate made a larger salary than I, we settled on me being the SAHP.
I had earned some form of salary since my early teens. Sometimes it was a ridiculously minimal salary, and sometime I spent it on shoes when I should have paid bills, but I earned my own money for most of my life. So it was no little thing for me to say, “Sure. I’ll stay at home while you continue to work.” But I was excited by the possibilities.
When I quit working, Nate thought, since I had a little more time on my hands, I could take over a few other things – things that really went under the umbrella “running the house” anyway. I added to my list of To Dos laundry, ironing, meals, housekeeping, shopping (food, clothing, household, etc), car maintenance, yard maintenance, house maintenance, total financial output, childcare, taxi service and medical caregiver. At first, this was quite heady. I had complete control over everything. I thought I was Superwoman.
But I am not Superwoman, and
things soon seemed to unravel. The kids are alive, if not necessarily enjoyable. The house is standing, even if it was on pillars of dirty laundry and yesterday’s breakfast dishes. About the time my inadequacies as a housewife started to peek through, Nate slipped in a few jokes about taking himself to work so that I might live in the manner in which I was accustomed (titter) or a casual mention of how nice it is not to have to get out of sleepwear before lunch, if at all (tee-hee) or how fun it must be to get to do crafts and make cupcakes instead of going to meetings (ha-ha). And I took these in the good fun they were intended. But one little phrase crept into Nate’s vocabulary that did not go unnoticed:
“My money.”
More jokes popped up like “Honey, may I have my money to go buy a new CD?” Then points were made, all with a laugh, “You bought me my Father’s Day gift with my money – so actually I bought it.” And other times, there was no joke, “What do you mean I shouldn’t have bought a new computer without consulting you – it’s my money.”
I tried to assure myself that I did contribute to the family in a most valuable way. The Mommyverse sent me links for calculators that tabulated how much salary a mom would earn if she was in the corporate world. I relished in the fact that my salary, according to these calculators, would surpass Nate’s.
But my satisfaction was short lived because I did not earn any salary and what I do does not have a dollar value. So when I buy a little blouse on sale for 30 percent off, I feel guilt. And when I get the kids some new pajamas, I contemplate if they actually need them or if they would enable me to put laundry off for one more day. Despite everything, the dollar wins. And despite my knowing everything to the contrary, I bow to the fact that I am not a wage earner.
This fight is not a new one. Women have had this battle for ages. The only time in conscious memory The Mothers jumped in and defended me was after Nate made a “my money” joke in front of them. They descended on him like locusts.
The point is it is not funny. When I have finished pretending I know how to raise children and try to get back in the workforce, I will have a terrible uphill climb. My resume is shot because I have a gap in my experience. I know this because, when I was hiring, I tossed out SAHM’s resumes for this reason. I have committed career suicide.
Supermom Breaks a Nail Page 6