Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  Neither of us said a word.

  Until forty-five minutes later when I wondered out loud if he thought we could sell Sara on eBay.

  He didn’t answer.

  “IS THAT A NO?” I screamed over Sara’s wails.

  To recap:

  Sara: cruel dictator.

  Parents: dead.

  Hangover: brutal.

  Greg: probably well rested and tanned.

  Travel swing: busted, lying in a field somewhere in northern Illinois.

  Monday, May 26

  I feel like total crap again today. My head is killing me, my joints are achy, and I have hideous cotton mouth. After I dropped Sara off at day-care this morning, I actually contemplated calling in sick to work and going home and sleeping for eight hours. Until I realized I’d make it all the way back home and then feel horribly guilty and have to go pick Sara up at day-care. Not to mention, I have an enormous amount of work piled on my desk and I want to leave at a reasonable hour tonight.

  “Clare, are you free around two?” Christina called from her office.

  “Yes,” I called back, and prayed she wouldn’t ask me to do anything that required full brain capacity.

  “Great, let’s meet in my office at that time.”

  Crap.

  Either she was going to give me a new project or I had dropped the ball with one of my events and I was going to get an ass-reaming. I quickly tore open my event files and scoured them for any detail I might have missed, but everything seemed in place and on time.

  I figured she was going to give me a new project. One that would take her ten minutes to explain and about forty hours for me to complete.

  Oh joy. As though I’m not in the office enough as it is. As though I didn’t work late last week and have to race home just to see Sara before her bedtime. As though I didn’t put her into her crib and cry because I only spent fifteen minutes with her before bedtime.

  Mule Face, having heard the exchange, e-mailed me, Ooohhh, someone’s in trouble! What do you think she’s going to say????

  I ignored her e-mail and pictured her in a bathing suit to make myself feel better.

  At two, I walked into Christina’s office and sat down on one of the plush brown leather chairs.

  “So, what’s up?” I said as I flipped open my leather binder.

  “One second,” she said as she finished typing on her computer.

  I gazed around her office and stared at her perfectly pressed gray worsted wool suit. Bitch. She always has the best clothes.

  “OK, sorry,” she said, and took off her black Gucci frames. She swiveled in her chair to face me. “So, how’s the golf outing going?”

  “Great. Everything’s going well. No snags. Should be a pretty straightforward event,” I gave her my best I-Am-So-Capable-You-Don’t-Want-to-Make-Me-Go-Crazy-by-Giving-Me-Another-Project-Do-You?

  She stood up, and walked over to her office door, and closed it.

  My stomach dropped a little.

  “You know you’re one of my best event consultants, right?” she said.

  Oh no, I’m getting fired.

  But I’ve worked my ass off in this job. All of my clients love me.

  I think I made a little squeaking sound.

  “And we always get outstanding feedback from your clients,” she continued as she sat back down at her desk.

  They’re firing me because I’m too good. I’m a threat.

  I’m going to have to become a cage dancer to pay our bills.

  Maybe Sara can get a job. What is she qualified to do? Maybe she could hire herself out as a human tornado siren.

  “… an assistant,” Christina said.

  I only caught the last couple of words, since I was too busy mentally revising my résumé.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I said.

  “You’ve taken on so many new clients and brought this company so much business that we’re offering you the opportunity to hire an assistant to help with your back-office responsibilities. To free up your time for more client interaction,” Christina finished.

  “Wow, whoa, I mean thank you,” I said, dumbfounded.

  “No, thank you. I think you do a phenomenal job and you really deserve this.” Christina leaned back in her chair and tapped a pencil against the table.

  I composed myself quickly and said, “Thank you, I won’t let you down.”

  I walked out of Christina’s office in a daze. In the span of ten minutes, I went from preparing myself to become a stripper to having an assistant at the most prestigious event-planning firm in the city. I nearly plowed over Mule Face, who was hovering outside the door, holding a Snickers bar. She gave me this huge fakey smile and congratulated me, having heard the entire conversation with her ear pressed to the door. I smiled sweetly at her, knowing she was dying inside that I’m getting an assistant and she’s not. My smile didn’t even break when she asked if it was due to some affirmative action initiative for mothers in the workplace.

  As I sat back down at my desk, I thought, This. This is what I’ve worked so hard for—recognition, accomplishment, accolades. This is why I work until it’s dark out and have to speed home to see my daughter. I kick ass at my job.

  Yet even in my moment of triumph, my minute of victory, it was still hard to feel 100 percent happy. I know that with this assistant will come with greater responsibilities, longer hours, and increased expectations. No gifts come for free, and I will pay for this one with a pound of guilt.

  Wednesday, May 28

  The glow of my meeting with Christina still surrounds me. For as many times as I fantasize about running away, turning off my cell phone, and checking into a nice hotel, or for all the times lately that I’ve lamented about my mom’s health, her lumpectomy next month, Sara’s sleeping schedule, and my coworkers, my life really isn’t that bad.

  Sure, I’m exhausted pretty much all of the time, and working full-time and having a baby means that I really have a hard time doing anything 100 percent, but I really can’t complain. And I have the option of working, not the necessity anymore. I have my own choices, my own direction—even if I’m not sure if the road I’m traveling is the right one.

  Not to mention, Sara’s a pretty good baby except for blips on the radar like the Great Tooth That Almost Killed Us All. And Jake’s always willing to help out with the baby and household stuff.

  So, my life really isn’t so bad. Reese’s life, on the other hand, isn’t one that I envy.

  Of course, she made a certain choice by marrying Matt right out of college, but I think the idea of getting married and having a family, at the time, was more important than who she actually created that life with. While Grace was planned, Brendan certainly wasn’t, and Reese’s paying for it in spades.

  I arrived at her house during my lunch break to drop off a gift I bought for Brendan. Before I could even knock on the door, I heard the unmistakable sound of a newborn cry.

  Reese answered the door in sweatpants and a baby puke–stained T-shirt. I think it was the first time since college that I’ve seen her in her pajamas.

  “Hi, oh no! Is it noon already?” She leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes.

  “Tough day?” I said, and walked inside.

  “You have no idea,” she said, and closed the door behind me.

  I followed her into the enormous family room, decorated straight out of a Pottery Barn catalog, with white candles everywhere, huge plush couches, and tons of comfy throw pillows. Next to the television, Brendan was lying in his swing, squirming and crying.

  “He just won’t stop,” she said as she picked him up. “What’s wrong, honey?” she said to him. He screamed louder and stiffened his body. “He cries anytime he’s not sleeping or eating,” she said to me as she sat down on the couch next to me.

  I didn’t dare say the C word.

  The C word used to mean a part of a woman’s anatomy. A word that I can’t stand.

  Now, the C word is much, much more offensive.


  C-O-L-I-C.

  Thankfully, God didn’t curse me with a colicky child. I guess he thought getting knocked up while on the pill was funny enough.

  “Do you want me to take him and give you a break?” I offered.

  “No, that’s—,” she said distractedly as she yanked up her shirt and stuck her boob in his mouth. “Ah, there.” Her body relaxed and she closed her eyes for a minute.

  “Where’s Grace?” I asked as I snapped my head around the room. I hoped she wasn’t playing in the kitchen with knives thanks to Reese’s sleep deprivation.

  “Napping, thank the dear Lord. I had no idea having two would be this hard.” She exhaled loudly.

  “I know …,” I said, and trailed off. It probably would be easier if you had some help from that husband, I thought. “So, a boy, huh? That’s so cool.”

  “I know, one of each.” Reese’s eyes were still closed as she lay very still.

  “I’m already worrying about all the stuff that comes with having a girl, like the mean girl cliques and her telling me how uncool I dress and how much I embarrass her.” I laughed.

  “That’s nothing. A few months ago, I saw a five-year-old wearing eye shadow and complaining she looked fat.”

  I shuddered. “I’d rather you didn’t tell me those things. At least we’ll have each other. We can raise our girls together.”

  “No kidding. We can drink a bottle of wine every time they tell us they hate us.” Reese opened one eye and looked at me.

  “Then we’ll become alcoholics.” I laughed.

  “Before I forget, since I’d swear my IQ seeps out in my breast milk, I got you something. It’s on the kitchen table,” she said, and nodded toward the kitchen.

  “Reese, what? No, are you crazy? Why did you buy me something?” I shook my head.

  “For being there for me in the hospital. If you wouldn’t have been there …” She trailed off, her eyes glistening.

  “You would’ve been by yourself,” I said before I could stop myself.

  She looked at me and her mouth wavered for a minute, but she set it in a thin smile. “Go get it.”

  I walked into her gorgeous kitchen and looked around at the cherry cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless-steel appliances that I’d drooled over many times. I picked up a green and pink–wrapped box and brought it into the family room. I opened it and inside was a beautiful light pink cashmere wrap.

  “Ohhh, Reese. It’s beautiful!” I held up the soft material and rubbed it against my cheek. “You’re insane—you shouldn’t have!” I said lightly.

  “Yes, I should,” she said.

  “Well, now my gift is going to look stupid,” I said as I awkwardly pushed my present over to her on the couch.

  “Open it for me. I don’t want to move him and risk another meltdown.” She nodded toward Baby Brendan.

  I opened the present and handed it to her.

  “It’s just a shorts and T-shirt set with little baby flip-flops.” I awkwardly held it up like a Price Is Right model.

  “What do you mean, ‘just’? It’s great!” she said.

  “I figured you didn’t have any boy clothes, and I didn’t want to get you another toy that made noise since, yeah, we already had that conversation.” I shrugged.

  “Good call. Thanks, I love it,” she said.

  We sat silent for a minute as I looked down at my pink wrap. I rubbed my index finger against the soft stitching. I looked at Matt and Reese’s wedding photo on the end table next to me. “So, what’s going on with Matt?” I said quietly, without looking up.

  She took in a long breath and exhaled slowly. She looked down at Baby Brendan and rocked him back and forth for a second.

  “I think I’m going to ask him to move out,” she said quietly.

  “Really?” I said evenly.

  “It’s not working. I mean, I don’t want to take care of two kids on my own, but it’s harder to have him around, you know?” She didn’t look up from her newborn son, quietly sighing as though he could sense the sadness around him.

  I nodded mutely. “Are you still going to start graduate school in the fall?”

  “Planning on it.” She looked at me quickly and nodded.

  “That’s great. You haven’t done something just for yourself in forever.” I briefly covered her hand with mine and patted it.

  She smiled.

  I wanted to ask her so many things, like would she be OK financially, how she was going to tell Grace, was she going to ask for a divorce.

  But I just said, “Is there anything I can do?”

  She smiled. “Just that helps.”

  I leaned over and put my arm around her, which was somewhat awkward considering her boob was exposed with her baby attached to it. Her sorrow was palpable as we sat there silently.

  As I hugged Reese, I felt terrible for the words popping into my brain: I never want to be like this. I never want to build my life only for someone else. I never want to lose myself like Reese did.

  I threw my arms around Jake the second he got home today. He started to pull away after a second, but I held him close, one arm wrapped around him, the other around Sara. I closed my eyes and listened to Jake’s heart beat in his chest against my ear and Sara’s coos in my other ear and my shell of sadness began to crack.

  I felt comforted by the presence of my husband and daughter, a safety that exists only when all three of us are separated only by inches. But it wasn’t just their presence, it was the knowledge that while I don’t ever want to lose myself in my marriage or child—to forget about my own identity and dreams—it is here, with them, that I feel most like me.

  Saturday, June 7

  “Piece of cake.”

  That’s how my mom described her lumpectomy yesterday.

  Of course, she wouldn’t tell me if it had gone otherwise, but she did sound surprisingly OK when I talked to her last night. My dad took her home after the surgery and she has strict instructions to take it easy. Which, to her, normally means only working on her laptop for eight hours a day, only doing four loads of laundry, and cooking a “light” meal of braised lamb with mint aioli sauce. But my dad’s given her instructions to do nothing but lie around, watch television, read magazines, and nap. We’ll see how long that lasts, considering I think the last time my mother took a nap was 1976.

  After I hung up with my dad, I called Mark to see how he was handling everything, and also to get the scoop on his new woman.

  “-ello?” he screamed into the phone. It sounded like he was inside Mötley Crüe’s tour bus.

  “IT’S CLARE!” I shouted.

  “CLARE?” he screamed back.

  “CLARE!” I said again.

  “HOLD ON, LET ME GO OUTSIDE.” After a minute, the deafening music was silenced. “There. Can you hear me?”

  “Much better. Where are you?” I asked.

  “I’m at Duffy’s. Happy hour drinks are only two dollars for beer and three dollars for well drinks. You should come.” He said it so casually.

  “You’re at a bar when Mom just had surgery?” I asked, incredulous.

  “I talked to Dad. He said she’s fine,” Mark said. “Besides, I stopped at—”

  “Hey, Mark! Is Shitface inside?” some guy said on the other end.

  “Yeah, he’s sitting at the bar. Sorry, anyway,” Mark said, talking to me, “I stopped at a church earlier and said a prayer.”

  “Who’s Shitface? Never mind, forget it. I just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

  “I’m great. You know, still freaked out, but good.” I could practically hear him shrugging.

  “Good. How’s Casey?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “So what’s the flaw?” I asked quickly.

  “Uh, nothing. She’s a really cool girl.” He sounded confused.

  “I like her a lot. I’m just curious as to why someone so normal would date you,” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen, I gotta go, some o
f my friends just got here.” I could hear raucous yelling in the background.

  “Just don’t screw it up!” I yelled into the phone before I hung up.

  “SCREW WHAT UP?” Mule Face yelled from down the hall.

  Wednesday, June 11

  I think I got about four hours of sleep last night. Between getting home sometime near midnight and waking up every half hour or so thanks to Sara’s Night of No Sleeping Ever, stumbling through the haze that is my new normal. I think there was once a time in my life when I got eight hours of sleep, but I really can’t be sure.

  Thankfully, I can slack off a little today at work since the golf outing kickoff party went smoothly. I just wish that translated into a free day off.

  I broke down and purchased a new outfit for the cocktail party, since my ego wouldn’t allow me to wear the Miss Piggy pants.

  So, armed with a cute new black wrap dress, still two sizes larger than pre-Sara, and a pair of killer heels, I arrived at the club about an hour before the party was supposed to begin. Since there really wasn’t much to do, I sat out on the balcony overlooking the golf course and sipped a glass of lemon water.

  “Can I bring you anything else, Ms. Finnegan?” A white-gloved waiter appeared next to me.

  “No thanks, I’m good.” I smiled at him and leaned back against the white wicker chair. A few golfers were still teeing off on the last hole and I could hear their booze-soaked conversation floating across the green.

  I exhaled and sipped my water, thankful for a few moments of silence.

  Wouldn’t it be great if this were my life?

  What if I had a life where people brought me hot towels and lemon water? Where I could play golf, after I learn how to play, all afternoon and end the day with a cocktail on this balcony?

  But you can have more time each afternoon. With Sara.

  I closed my eyes and felt the sun on my face as it started to move west.

  “Sleeping?” a voice said, startling me.

  “Oh, hi! No, just relaxed.” I smiled at Greg. “What are you doing here so early?”

  His freshly pressed khaki pants and crisp white polo shirt offset his deep caramel tan. “Just finished a round. Didn’t make sense to go home and come all the way back.”