Mom Jeans and Other Mistakes

by Alexa Martin

  “Yeah.” I nod my head like he can see me somehow, feeling like a giddy teenager who just got asked to prom. “That sounds good. I’m really excited.”

  “Me too . . . and, Lauren,” he calls just before I’m about to hit end. “Thanks for giving me a chance.”

  Jude’s holding Adelaide’s hand, staring at me as Adelaide’s little mouth moves nonstop, no doubt telling her all the titillating details of level-one gymnastics. She widens her eyes, asking about a million questions without saying a word. I smile back, hoping it gives just as many answers.

  “I feel like I should be the one thanking you.”

  There’s silence for a second before his soft voice is in my ear. “Then you’d be wrong. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I hit end, knowing I can’t take any more of his sweetness unless I want to dissolve into a puddle of tears on the slightly padded floors.

  Adelaide finally spots me as I weave my way through the crowded hallway, and lets go of Jude’s hand and sprints toward me.

  “Mommy!” she cries as she jumps into my arms, her little body not nearly as light as it was a year ago. “Did you see my roundoff? I was so good!”

  “You were amazing.” I grunt as I lower her back to the floor. “I’m so proud of you!”

  “I know.” She waves off my words. “You’re always proud of me.”

  “And I’m proud of your mom.” Jude takes her phone from my hand and slides it back into her bag.

  Adelaide looks at Jude, her face scrunched up with those adorable little wrinkles on the bridge of her nose that I used to kiss when she was a baby. “Why?”

  “Because she’s really brave.” Jude says the words like they mean nothing, but I feel them down to my soul.

  “Of course she’s brave, she’s my mom.” Adelaide shrugs before intertwining her fingers with mine as we approach the parking lot, like she didn’t just shift my entire world.

  Because she’s right. In the blunt honesty that only a five-year-old can deliver, she reminded me that I’m her example for this life. If I want her to grow up to be a strong and happy adult, I have to show her what a strong and happy adult looks like.

  No matter how much it scares me. No matter how hard I have to fight for it.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  • • •

  Jude

  I’ll never understand how in the hell I let Lauren convince me to do some of the shit she makes me do.

  After she got her license, she talked me into going camping with her for the weekend. Of course, she told her mom she was just staying at my house and I told my parents that I was going to hers. This was a brilliant plan until we got there and realized we had no fucking clue what we were doing. I, the smart and reasonable sixteen-year-old I was, said we should ditch it and just go crash at a hotel overlooking a lake instead. Genius, right? Well, Lauren wouldn’t do it. And we ended up eating cold hot dogs and sleeping in a tent that continuously collapsed on us all night long. It was a disaster and I swore I would never go with her again.

  Until she asked me a month later and, like an idiot, I said yes.

  But because Lauren is Lauren, she spent that month reading about camping and then grilling the employees at some camping store. So when we went back, it was literally the best time ever.

  I guess my faith that she wouldn’t let me suffer through the same thing twice is how she convinced me to come to another playgroup meetup.

  Well . . . that and the fact that Addy gives a really good pout face when she says please.

  “Honest to God,” I lean over and whisper to Lauren as we wait in line for the bounce house the kids just had to get in. “You owe me so fucking hard for this, Lauren. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this shit.”

  Instead of looking the least bit apologetic, the bitch laughs. Laughs!

  The audacity.

  “Oh, come on.” She opens her arms wide, gesturing to the hellhole also known as Mr. Bones in mid-October. “When’s the last time you went to a pumpkin patch? This is fun.”

  Clearly, we have very different definitions of fun.

  “I guess fun is subjective.” I look straight ahead, counting the number of heads we have until our group can have their turn in the bounce house.

  Apparently, I’m the only person who seems to be worried about the sanitation of a bunch of children—and it’s a scientific fact that children are gross—climbing into a bounce house and most likely losing and/or taking off their socks at some point. Disgusting.

  But beyond nasty kid feet, there are about fifty other reasons I can think of for today not being “fun.”

  One, we had to buy VIP passes for this outing. To a pumpkin patch. I love my city, but that is so LA it makes me want to vomit.

  Two, and more importantly, it’s a day I have to spend with Jennifer and her band of merry witches . . . which is not a Halloween pun.

  In a cruel stroke of fate, Lake and Adelaide have apparently become best friends this year. So I was lectured more than Addy was on the car ride over. It felt excessive, but then I got my first glimpse of Jennifer and Lake and realized how necessary it was.

  Because I learned that matching wasn’t just a fun summer activity. Jennifer was equipped with a mother-daughter fall wardrobe as well. And if I ever thought the bright floral dresses were the most obnoxious things in the entire world, I was instantly proven wrong when I saw Jennifer and Lake in matching Gucci cardigans.

  Fucking gag.

  Allover logos are tacky as hell, and that’s a mountain I will gladly die on.

  Outfitting yourself and your fucking five-year-old in logo-covered, five-hundred-dollar cardigans makes me feel punchy. I’m not a violent person, but I swear to god, when I saw Jennifer, my palm started to twitch.

  And poor little Lake, she just wants to roll in the fungus-coated bounce house, ride the smelly ponies, and get her face painted. All activities Jennifer has curled her lip and begrudgingly agreed to only if Lake took off her sweater.

  Like maybe don’t put your kindergartner in a fucking Gucci sweater to go to a pumpkin patch and let her breathe, bitch.

  But thanks to Lauren’s lecture fresh in my mind and my new therapist, Chloe, all of this stayed tucked inside as I forced a smile on my face and didn’t say a word. Like a goddamn champion.

  Or a reasonable adult.

  Same thing.

  We get to the front of the line, and Addy takes her shoes off in a split second before her group of five is racing through the tiny, oval-shaped entrance. We move to the side, watching through the netted siding as they jump and flop all around. Their giggles grow with every second, and my cold, hardened heart can’t take it. They’re so damn cute and their joy is contagious. Before I even know it’s happened, I’m laughing along with them and taking an obscene—and maybe creepy—amount of pictures of children who do not belong to me.

  “You’re breaking.” Lauren nudges my shoulders, not even trying to disguise the smugness in her voice . . . or on her face. “I knew you’d have fun eventually.”

  “Again, I think you’re playing it a little fast and loose with that term.” I roll my eyes and tuck my phone back into my little cross-body bag. “But I’m not hating it, and as always, Addy makes everything better. You made the cutest damn kid.”

  “Thanks, I worked really hard on her.” She laughs as she says it, but whenever anyone mentions her pregnancy, I can see the ghosts cross her face. Not only did she almost die, but it’s also the time she saw her relationship start to fall apart. “But she was worth it. C-section scar and all.”

  “Yup”—I cringe thinking of the horror stories she told me about her organs being outside of her body and then the way she could barely move for weeks after—“never fucking having kids. Addy’s it for me.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re practically married, I
guess.”

  “Truer words.” I follow her to the front of the bounce house as she gathers Addy’s shoes and gets out of the way for the next stampede of kids when their time is up.

  All of the moms shepherd their children out of the flow of traffic and keep them surrounded until their shoes (and, as predicted, socks) are back on.

  “I vote we grab food and then go pick our pumpkins,” Sabrina, still my favorite Remington mom, suggests. “I think they have Mexican food over there. Some of us can hop in line and the rest can reserve tables.”

  Besides this place being overpriced and overcrowded, the one thing they do have going for them is excellent taste in food trucks. Considering we’ve been here for two hours already, I figure it should almost be time to wrap this party up. Plus, if they don’t feed me, I’m gonna get hangry, and I can’t go there again.

  Whitney’s lip curls in disgust, and I assume she’s only just now realizing her evil leader is wearing a Gucci sweater. “Food trucks? I’m sorry, but I am not feeding my child from a food truck.”

  Even though I’m trying really hard to stay on my best behavior, there’s not a chance in hell—or the valley—that I could prevent the way my eyes roll. Thankfully, from all the deep sighs and moans I hear going around, I’m not the only one who finds her completely unbearable.

  “Well, then you can be one of the people who saves the seats,” Lauren . . . Lauren! . . . says. “And the ones of us who are okay with our kids eating from the gluten-, dairy-, and egg-free food truck can go do that.”

  My head snaps toward my quiet, polite, mild-mannered best friend. I don’t know if I want to high-five her or leap on her and smother her with kisses. Like, honestly, who even is this fucking bombshell, boss bitch next to me? She’s still the best mom and friend, but now she’s making plans for dates and coming up with snappy, but still kind, responses for the wicked witches of Remington!

  Hell yes! Look at us, just rubbing off on each other and becoming better people.

  God. Chloe is going to be so proud of us.

  “So that’s settled then,” Sabrina says. She’s got a shit-eating grin on her face that makes me like her even more. “Kids, you’re going to sit with Miss Whitney, Miss Jennifer, and Miss Colleen while we go get your food. Be on your best behavior, okay?”

  She’s met with an adorably in-sync round of yeses. Addy, Lake, and Winnie all hold hands together, following behind the moms who got roped into supervision duty.

  “Do you want me to hang back and keep an eye on Addy?” I ask Lauren. It’s not that I don’t trust Jennifer . . . no, sorry, that’s a lie. It’s def that I don’t trust Jennifer, and by the way Lauren’s shoulders sag in relief at my offer, it’s clear she doesn’t either.

  “Yes, thank you.” She grabs my hand and squeezes it once. “Want me to get you tacos?”

  “Is Jennifer’s sweater the most obnoxious thing ever? Obviously I want tacos.” I know, I’m stuck on the damn sweater, but I just really fucking hate it! Until today, I didn’t know that brand-name cardigans were my most irrational pet peeve, but here we are.

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but she does not disagree that Jennifer’s sweater is, in fact, the most obnoxious thing ever.

  She turns away, catching up with Sabrina, Brandi, and Lucy, and I trail behind the kids, making no effort to engage in conversation with the aging mean girls leading the charge. They head to the secure area where they stored their lunch boxes before going to the seating area.

  Now, I’m not saying that they actually are witches, but I am saying it’s crowded as hell, and as soon as they got close to the tables, two magically opened up. That could be a coincidence, but it could also be a spell they placed.

  Either way, I’m glad to be off my feet and drinking the free water that came with our sixty-dollar VIP passes.

  Only in Los Angeles.

  Jennifer directs all the kids to sit at one table, and—with great reluctance—I join the adult table. I know Addy is way more entertaining than any of these women, but she’s living her best kindergarten life with her friends and I don’t want to cramp her style. Even though I am very much the cool aunt and she would be lucky to have me at her side.

  I sit quietly, minding my own business as the moms who were too good for the food truck unpack lunches for their kids. Because they were so high and mighty about the food options here, I assumed they’d have gourmet meals complete with all-organic, maybe even vegan options. Instead, I bite back my laughter as they hand their kids Lunchables, sports drinks that are pretty much all sugar, and a few pieces of fruit.

  Oh, the irony of it all.

  “So, Jude,” Colleen, the only one of these women I can kind of deal with, grabs my attention. “How’s the podcast going?”

  I ignore the way Jennifer’s cheeks go red at the mention of the podcast. I guess she’s not over the launch party after all . . .

  “It’s going great.” I’m not a person to humblebrag—or really be humble at all—but I’m definitely not going to hold back singing Lauren’s praises to these women. “I knew it was going to do well, but it’s surprised us all with just how quickly it’s taken off. The mommy influencer arena is pretty saturated, but everyone is loving Lauren. She’s really been the big draw. People love her honesty, realness, and humor. Because of her, we’re already fielding sponsorship offers.”

  I should’ve reached out to this damn pumpkin patch and offered an Instagram post and ad during the podcast in exchange for our passes. I probably could’ve saved us almost two hundred dollars. I’m slipping.

  “Well, I’m sure your name and platform played a huge part in the success too,” Whitney offers. “I have a vlog, and gaining an audience before you can monetize takes ages.”

  The urge to roll my eyes is so strong that I’m afraid they’ll start to bleed if I don’t give in.

  “My platform got us a few listeners in the very beginning, but all the work Lauren has put into building our email list and coming up with relatable and authentic content is what has skyrocketed our success.” Did Jennifer not tell these women that I’m not gonna sit back and let them get away with their passive-aggressive jabs? “Most influencers are stagnant because people aren’t authentic. They’re trying so hard to appeal to everyone or present this picture-perfect facade that nobody can relate to. Audiences are a lot smarter than most content creators give them credit for, and they can see right through the bullshit. If your vlog is struggling, I’d suggest you do an audit and go over all of your posts. See which ones have the most engagement and which ones didn’t do well. Then you need to sit down and really think about what you have to offer instead of just going off what you think you need to be.”

  Whitney doesn’t really deserve my help. She’s awful. But maybe she’ll realize she’s been awful and do a video about being a recovering mean girl and leave her dark, evil ways behind her. And while Jennifer’s rolling her eyes at my really fucking good advice, Whitney’s eyes are a little wider and I can see she’s really taking in everything I’ve told her. I might not be great at many things in life, but I’m damn good at my job. She’d be right to listen to me if her vlog is something she’s truly passionate about.

  “Thanks.” She pulls out her phone, and I assume she’s taking down notes on what I told her. “I never thought about doing a content audit. That’s a really good idea.”

  I want to say duh, but again, like an adult, I don’t. “I find them really helpful. I do one at the beginning of the year and again in June or July.”

  Before Whitney can respond, shrieks of excitement are heard from the kids’ table.

  “Mommy!” Addy shouts like she didn’t just see her mom ten minutes ago.

  Lauren’s smile lights up, her love for Addy written all over her face, and it makes her—impossibly—more beautiful. So much so that a few guys turn their heads and watch her as she goes by. I know she’s
still struggling with the custody battle and the things Ben said about her, but something has shifted inside of her and everyone is taking notice. Even strangers.

  “Are you hungry?” Lauren asks as she gets closer, holding a bag of food in one hand and drink tray in the other. Her steps falter a little when she sees the lunches already on the table, and she pulls her lips between her teeth, no doubt fighting the smug smile I know she wants to let free.

  “I’m starving, Mommy,” Addy, who may or may not be even more dramatic after living with me for a few months, says. “I can feel my muscles shrinking, I need food to keep them strong.”

  Yup.

  Definitely more dramatic.

  And I refuse to apologize. It’s adorable.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want your muscles to disappear,” Lauren says with a straight face. “Will tacos help?”

  Addy’s eyes light up and she jumps out of her seat. “Tacos help with everything!”

  Lauren shakes her head and looks at me. I just shrug because Addy has never spoken truer words. She’s a very wise five-year-old who has taken very well to our strict Taco Tuesday schedule. Some may call it propaganda, but I call it priorities. No kid of mine (blood or otherwise) will not love tacos.

  Lauren drops the bag in front of Addy, unpacking foil-wrapped tacos and putting them on the table in front of her. Poor Lake eyes them with envy as she chomps down on her cold chicken nugget.

  “Thanks, Mommy.” Addy doesn’t even glance at Lauren as she grabs her taco and takes a gigantic bite.

  Lauren shakes her head and grabs the bag, avoiding colliding with the other food truck moms, and makes her way to the spot next to me.

  “I got some vegan ones and some with chicken.” She hands me a cup I know without even asking is filled with Diet Coke. “They both looked good and I couldn’t decide.”