I loved my son, but I didn’t care to relive the birth—anyone who says they would were either so drugged up they couldn’t feel the pain, or they’re pathological liars. His baby coos and smiles were heartwarming, invaluable, and totally capable of pulling me off the ledge of sleep-deprived insanity, but when I think about him being that small, all I can remember is the colic and hours upon endless hours of crying. Hearing him say “Momma” for the first time was a high unlike any other. Except after two years of hearing it nonstop, even when I was on the toilet, repeated over and over again until I responded with my full, undivided attention—let’s be real, kids know when you’re only halfway listening in a desperate attempt to pacify them—doesn’t have the same effect.
There were lots of amazing things in my life I wouldn’t mind reliving, but none of them came back to me as I stood there with the side door slid open, staring at the chubbiest little cheeks, the brightest blue eyes, and a headful of dark curls.
“Cookie,” she cooed while holding out her hand to show me the half-eaten, sugary treat clamped between her tiny little fingers.
I glanced back up at Trevor and watched him kick his legs in excitement, a genuine smile lighting up his face. With a contagious giggle, he handed the girl another one.
“How in the hell did you manage to kidnap a kid?” Steph’s voice rushed into my ear.
“I’m assuming she climbed into the van while I was putting the groceries in the back.”
“Okay…but how did you drive all the way home without seeing her? Without knowing you had someone else’s kid in your car?”
I didn’t like her tone, but I wasn’t exactly in the position to argue. “She’s sitting on the floorboard behind my seat, so I wouldn’t have been able to see her from the front.” As if my brain needed a few minutes to absorb the reality around me, I finally understood what I had in front of me. “Holy mother fucking shit balls. What the hell am I going to do with her?”
“Uh…keep her?” Stephany broke out into uncontrollable laughter, ignoring my frustration and panic. “No, for real though, you need to take her back. Go return her.”
“How? Take her to the customer service counter and say, ‘Hi, I’m just here to return a small child who accidentally ended up with the rest of my groceries’? Hell no. Shouldn’t I call someone?”
“Leigh…you call when you find a lost dog, not when you steal someone’s kid.”
“Oh my God, Steph! I didn’t freaking steal her!”
“Sure. Tell that to the mob of people gathering in the parking lot. Or…should I call it the scene of the crime.”
“I hate you, Steph.” Resigned to my fate, I picked the little girl up and slid her into the seat before buckling her tiny body in. In hindsight, I probably should’ve put more thought into her not being in a proper seat for her size, but from where I stood, I was facing kidnapping charges. I didn’t have much mental capacity left to contemplate the possibility of additional child endangerment charges.
“Just take her back. I’m sure her parents are worried sick, and once you explain the situation, everything will calm down.”
“Shouldn’t someone call the police or the store? Something to inform them I’m on my way?”
She hummed in thought while I restarted the van and backed out of my driveway. “Probably not. All I can envision is you showing up to a line of SWAT, weapons drawn, helicopters hovering overhead.”
“You’ve been watching the movie channels again, haven’t you?”
“This isn’t about me, Leigh. This is about you and your grabby hands. You just couldn’t handle the fact that I’m having a girl and you’re stuck with a sticky, smelly, gross boy.”
The drive back to the store didn’t take near as long as the drive home had, which could’ve had something to do with my more-than-likely dangerously high heart rate. Stephany remained on the line the entire time, proving why she was my best friend by doing everything in her power to keep me calm.
When I pulled into the parking lot, it was impossible to miss the flurry of activity directly in front of the store. I realized as I turned down a lane, heading straight toward the blue and red lights, that this was the same aisle I had parked in not that long ago.
“Holy shit.” As slow as I could without going backward, I crept closer to the crowd.
While potty training Trevor, there were times he’d shit his pants and not tell me. I never understood why he’d choose to sit in feces rather than inform me so I could clean off his ass and change his undies. Now, as I made my way toward cops with a stolen child in the seat behind me, I wanted nothing more than to turn around and take this sweet little girl home, just to keep from getting in trouble or looking like a freaking idiot.
For real…who accidentally takes off with someone else’s kid?
Me. That’s who.
All because I’d embarrassed myself in front of a deliciously hot guy.
A uniformed officer noticed me, grabbed his belt, and held out his hand, as if warning me to stop. So I did. In the middle of the aisle, I put the van in park and unbuckled my seatbelt. “Steph? Stay on the line. If something happens, please get someone down here to take care of Trevor, and call a lawyer. Oh, and get bail money.”
“Hey, Leigh?” she called out, stopping me from exiting the idling vehicle. “If they give you shit, you should tell them that the return policy was unclear in regards to toddlers.”
I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see me, and climbed out. I tugged on the handle for the side door and waited for it to automatically slide open. But before I could get the little girl out of the seat, I noticed a familiar face in the crowd. And within seconds of us locking eyes, he recognized me, and then broke into a frantic sprint in my direction.
“Fuck me,” I mumbled beneath my breath, watching the sexiest man alive run toward me.
There went my theory of never having to see him again.
After freeing the child from the seat, I lifted her out of the van and set her down on the pavement. Giggling, she trotted to her dad with her hand held high in front of her, excitedly saying, “Cookie!”
It was such a touching moment to witness. The little girl ran into her father’s arms, where he cradled her close to his chest with his eyes closed, utter relief exuding from his softened features. It was so emotional I could’ve imagined music playing in the background and everyone in the parking lot breaking out in synchronized dance with lighters held high above their heads.
“Pucker.” The child version of the F-bomb coming out in her angelic voice was enough to break through my dreamy visions of a young girl reuniting with her worried father.
I snapped my attention to him and found him glowering at me, brow taut with intense fury. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you take my daughter?”
I held up my hands in surrender, frantically looking around to make sure no one had their guns drawn and aimed at me. They didn’t. But we did have everyone’s undivided attention as they all watched with caution, several officers carefully making their way toward us.
“She must’ve crawled into the van without me seeing her. My son had cookies, and I’m assuming that’s what she was after. I didn’t know she was even there until I got home and opened the door to let my son out. It wasn’t intentional. I swear.”
As his anger lessened, his expression softened.
“I’m so sorry. I feel horrible about what happened. It was completely unintentional, and as soon as I noticed her, I came straight back here. She sat quietly behind my seat the entire time, eating cookies. You have to believe me…I had no idea she was there.”
Thankfully, after several questions from the police—some asked to me, some to Trevor, and a couple to the little girl whose name was Allison—it was all over. They peeked around the van, ran my name and plates, verified everything I’d told them, and we were free to go.
“Hey, Leigh?” Stephany asked on my way home.
“Yeah, Steph?”
“Be
ing a mom terrifies me.”
“Hey, Steph?” I asked, finally calming down after my afternoon.
“Yeah, Leigh?”
“Just don’t kidnap anyone’s kid and you’ll be fine.”
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The Professor and the Doofus
J.A. DeRouen
The Professor and the Doofus
Copyright © 2017 by J.A. DeRouen
Editing by Mitzi Carroll
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Chapter 1
The Lies We Tell
Two pink lines. Two seemingly harmless, little dashes marked the end of life as we know it and jump-started one of the most joyous, rewarding, and absolutely petrifying journeys. So many thoughts, questions, and insecurities raced through my mind as my belly stretched to unimaginable limits and my bladder shrunk to the size of a peanut.
We’ve created a tiny little life.
There’s a freaking heart beating inside of me … and it’s not mine.
I’m gonna be somebody’s Momma.
What if there is more than one baby in there? Holy shit …
I don’t know what to do. I have no earthly idea how to take care of a tiny human being. What if I suck at this?
For me, it always came back to that. Millions of random thoughts popped up, but I always came back to my biggest fear. What if I’m bad at this mom thing? What in the world do I know about taking care of a baby? I voiced this concern over and over to family, friends, recent mothers—basically, anyone who sat still long enough for me to spew my hormone-ridden worries on. They all waved me away with a flick of the wrist and an all-knowing smirk. You know that smirk, right? The “I have all the answers, and you’re clueless because you don’t know the secret handshake” smirk?
“You just wait. When it’s time, you’ll just know what to do. When they place that sweet baby in your arms, everything will click into place. It’s innate … instinct. All mothers have it.”
Please excuse my French while I call a spade a spade—that’s a complete and total crock of crap. Maybe some women have this epiphany they speak of. Those women who are at one with Mother Earth and have harmony and breast milk flowing through their veins. Women with those scarf wraparound doohickeys, cradling the fruit of their loins to their breast while strolling through Target with a look of peace and contentment on their radiant faces.
You can bet your sweet ass they didn’t have an epidural.
After my son was born, I waited, not so patiently, for this elusive intuition to wash over me. I waited for all the pieces to fall into place. To know what every one of his cries meant … to be able to soothe him with the gentle squeeze of my arms and the serene sound of my voice.
My son is twelve years old, and I’m still waiting.
I remember circling the doctor’s office with a wailing three-week-old in the back seat, counting the minutes until they opened the doors so I could burst in and shove the baby carrier at them and beg, “Please tell me what is wrong with my baby!”
I also remember, with perfect clarity, the sense of dread coursing through me when the doctor explained what severe colic was and how it usually resolved on its own at about three months of age.
I’ll never forget the light chuckle that demon doctor let loose when I cried, “Three months? He’s only three weeks old!”
I’ve always said my son survived his first year of life by the grace of God and my momma. People laugh when I say that like it’s a hilarious over exaggeration. I assure you, it’s no joke. From birth until the time that he could speak and tell me what the hell was up, my son’s well-being was a teeny bit … precarious. That first year was a whopping ball of no sleep, good intentions, and horrific ignorance.
It didn’t take long for me to sift through the lies we tell each other and reach the truth of my situation—the truth that holds firm, even to this very day. Yes, I’m his mom, and he’s my sweet boy, but make no mistake, he’s the professor, and I’m the student. And these are just a few of the lessons I’ve learned.
Chapter 2
Lesson One
If He Didn’t See It, It Never Happened
Prior to motherhood, I was the independent sort … carefree … plans were for sissies. I’ve never been an “I don’t know, let me check with my husband” kind of girl. We were never that couple that was attached at the hip. He’d go hunting for the weekend, and I’d relish in my alone time with ice cream and a great book. I’d take off for a girls’ weekend, and he’d do whatever it is he liked to do when he had the house to himself—probably a whole lot of scratching his ass and walking around naked if I had to guess. It worked for us. We enjoyed our life together, but also had fulfilling lives outside of that, too.
And then two became three.
The days of grabbing my purse and hitting the road were long gone. They were replaced with grabbing the purse, diaper bag, bottles, stroller, changing pad, and whatever other contraption created to make our lives “easier.” I said goodbye to petite cross body bags and hello to overstuffed diaper bags that weighed twice as much as the baby nestled in the stroller. When becoming a pack mule became my only option, I decided to stay put.
Until I felt like I would spontaneously combust from looking at the same four walls, that is.
So before cabin fever claimed another victim, I orchestrated the maiden voyage for the professor and his highly capable mother … I’m talking about me right there. There was one outing attempt to the local Kmart prior, cut drastically short due to technical difficulties. Those difficulties included but were not limited to, the ear-piercing wail of the professor, the ill-timed let down reflex of my traitorous boobies, and the irritated glares of mid-day shoppers as I raced away, cradling my chest and apologizing profusely to whoever I passed on the way out of Dodge.
Wiping that memory from my brain, I decided to take the professor on his first shopping trip. With our friends’ daughter, Eva, having her first birthday party the next day, I decided to drop by the BabyGap for the perfect outfit to show off my handsome boy. Now, did I have a closet full of baby clothes, tags still on, hanging in his closet? Well, that’s irrelevant, isn’t it?
Diaper bag? Check! Bottles? Check! Stroller? Check! Oh, and the baby. Don’t forget the baby. Off to the mall we go!
The professor slept for the entire drive. So far, so good—I’m rocking the hell out of this shopping trip. I rolled into a front row parking space at the local mall, feeling well and accomplished. Front row parking. Shaded by a tree. S
leeping baby in the car seat.
I’m queen of the world!
I popped the trunk and lugged out the monstrosity that is the stroller and wedged that bad boy open.
Except I couldn’t … the damn thing wouldn’t … why the hell wouldn’t the stupid stroller open?
After wrestling with it a lot longer than I care to admit, I was sweaty, frustrated, and feeling like an imbecile. An imbecile who couldn’t open a simple stroller. I wasn’t queen of the world.
I was the doofus of the parking lot.
I huffed out a breath, swiped away the strands of hair sticking to my sweat-covered forehead, and racked my brain for a solution. I pondered the chain of events that led me to this very moment.
And that’s when I saw it, like a shining beacon, calling out my name.
Babys-R-Us … right across the street from the shopping mall.
Those were the fools that sold me this infuriating contraption!
So what did I do? I tossed that piece of crap back into the trunk and streaked across the parking lot like my ass was on fire. Once I got to Babys-R-Us, I loaded the professor’s car seat into a shopping cart (I had that figured out from the unfortunate K-Mart trip) and stormed the store. Once I found the display with my exact stroller, I planted myself in front of it and flagged down the first salesperson I saw.
I won’t go into detail about the snarky attitude I threw about the “piece of crap,” impossible stroller they sold me. No, I won’t lament about how the salesperson brought the stroller to life with a touch of a button and a turn of her wrist. No sweat. No frustration. No four letter words.
#MomFail: 24 Authors & 24 Mom-Coms Page 8