Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  I nodded. “Want anything to drink?”

  He shook his head. “I’m OK.” He sat down next to me and exhaled. He laced his fingers behind his head and stretched. “Beautiful day, huh?”

  “Absolutely. Should only help our numbers tonight. Rain always tends to screw things up a little for these kinds of things.”

  He nodded and we sat silently, next to one another on the balcony. The irony of the situation slapped me across the face. Greg and I here, at the golf club, together on the balcony. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, as I once thought we would always. In college, this was the life I thought I would have, the life I thought I wanted. A childless career woman, married to Greg.

  I was so certain an engagement ring would be the next present I received from him, rather than a bucketful of tears and a public breakup.

  “I think I should head inside. People will be here soon.” I stood up, drink in hand.

  “I’m right behind you,” Greg said, and followed me inside the club.

  I only had time for a quick check of the waitstaff, bar setup, and cocktail tables before people began to rush it. People arrived seemingly all at once, in a blue-blooded herd, racing to the bar like The Biggest Loser contestants to a dessert buffet.

  I wandered around the party, making sure everything was running accordingly. Events like this one are my favorite—they basically run themselves and everyone usually has a good time. As I was walking through the crowd, I felt a tap on my arm. I turned around and it took a few moments to register whom I was standing next to.

  Ethan and Nate—Greg’s two best friends from college, whom I haven’t seen in close to 8 million years and who, if memory serves, intimidated me in college.

  “Hey! Oh, hi! How are you?” I said quickly.

  Ethan and Nate, both dressed in waffle-weave polo shirts and khakis, nodded at me, their faces unsmiling.

  “Hey, Clare.” Ethan nodded, his spiky black hair radiating from his head like shooting stars.

  “Hi,” Nate said curtly. He brought his drink up to his lips and the huge silver watch on his wrist nearly blinded me.

  “Nice to see you guys,” I said briskly. I cleared my throat and stood up a little straighter.

  “What are you doing here? Are you a member?” Ethan said, his eyes darting around the room.

  I shook my head. “I’m the event coordinator. I worked with Greg and the committee to pull this off.”

  “Oh,” Ethan said. He and Nate exchanged a quick glance.

  I looked at both of them, appearing exactly the same as they did in college. And for a moment, I was brought right back. To standing in front of them, feeling inadequate. Feeling insecure. Feeling like they knew I didn’t deserve to be Greg’s girlfriend.

  But then almost ten years of distance reminded me of something else: that they’re assholes.

  I cleared my throat. “It’s a great job. Careerwise things are excellent.”

  “Huh. And I heard you have a kid now?” Nate said. I swear, he couldn’t have seemed less interested in my answer. But the voice inflection that would’ve left me cowering many years ago today fueled my confidence for some strange reason.

  “Jake and I have a daughter, Sara.” I nodded and smiled at both of them, who looked startled.

  Probably because that was the longest they’d ever heard me speak. Other than “Hey,” “Hi,” and “What’s up?”

  “Nice to see you both. Take care,” I said to Ethan and Nate. I walked away, feeling their gaze still on me. Feeling their slight bewilderment at the quiet girl who suddenly had a voice.

  As I said good-bye to Greg at the end of the night, he said, “Nate and Ethan said to tell you it was a great party.”

  I smiled, looking straight ahead across the club’s lawn, as we waited outside for the valet to bring Greg’s car.

  “What?” he said.

  I turned to look at him. “Nothing. It was great to see them and catch up.”

  The valet pulled Greg’s car up in front of us and got out.

  “Well, thanks for everything, Clare. Great party,” Greg said as the valet outstretched his arm and handed him the keys.

  “Thanks. No problem.” I smiled at Greg through the dark night.

  Friday, June 13

  The kickoff party behind me, I figured the rest of the week would be pretty slow at work. And it has been, except for the fact that my e-mail in-box is dinging every five seconds with another pointless e-mail.

  Here’s a sampling:

  From: Jennifer Theriod

  To: All

  Should we have the office lunch next week at P.F. Chang’s or Kona Grill?

  Then every idiot in the company hits Reply All to the message, so I’ve gotten thirty e-mails alone with people voting on which place to have lunch.

  Another:

  From: Zoe Smithe

  To: All

  Do you guys want to chip in to buy Kathy’s daughter a christening gift?

  Once again, thirty e-mails with people debating on how much to spend, what to get, who would go out and get the damn thing, and should we, in fact, even buy a gift?

  I played Grinch and voted that we shouldn’t buy a gift at all. Simply because I don’t want to get caught up in a revolving door of office gifts where we have to shell out ten dollars each week because so-and-so’s son is getting married or so-and-so’s grandmother turned eighty. Julie told me once she had to chip in at work because one of the other nurses’ cat died and she couldn’t afford a proper burial. So Julie had to chip in fifteen dollars to help cremate this chick’s cat.

  I had to buy a gift for Mule Face’s wedding to her husband, Big D (Short for Dwight. Hopefully not anything else) last year. I think buying a heart-shaped picture frame made out of crystal and tinsel was enough for a while.

  The good news today is that my assistant position is finally posted on the Internet. Let the flooding in of awesome candidates begin!

  3:30 P.M.

  How about, let the flooding in of average candidates begin?

  People who have sent in their résumés so far: a high-school student looking for twenty-five dollars an hour, a fry cook at McDonald’s, and someone who wrote, IverygoodatjobIliketohavejobhereismyresume and attached a résumé in some foreign language to the e-mail.

  4:30 P.M.

  I’ll settle for a candidate who speaks English and who functions at a third-grade level.

  6:00 P.M.

  Wifey1025 really really wants to be considered for the position since her parole officer told her she needs to find a job. I’ll have to look into Signature Events’ corporate policy on hiring convicted and possibly dangerous and stalkerlike felons.

  Saturday, June 21

  “You sound tired. Are you still in bed?” Julie asked me over the phone at noon today.

  “In bed? Are you serious?” I snorted. “I’ve been up since six thirty.”

  “Jesus, why in God’s name were you up at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday?” I could hear what sounded like a pill bottle rattling around in the background.

  “I have a kid, remember? Kids don’t generally sleep in. Because they are evil and want to punish their parents. Hungover?” I said.

  “Un-freaking-believably. Hold on.” I could hear her gulping down water and some extra-strength ibuprofen, I assumed. “OK, there.”

  “What did you do last night?” I asked.

  “Went out with this new coworker. She had like one-and-a-half beers and was completely hammered. You’d have thought she was high or something.”

  “Sounds like that girl from our dorm freshman year,” I said.

  “Who?” Julie’s voice squeaked out.

  “God, what was her name? You know, the chick that freaked out after she had three beers?” I tapped my finger against my cheek as I tried to pull her name from the air.

  “Oh yeah! What the fuck was her name?” Julie shrieked.

  “Laurel!” I said triumphantly, and pumped my fist in the air.

  “Yea
h, Laurel! We played drinking games in our room, and after like fifteen minutes that bitch ran out into the hallway, threw herself down, and started screaming her head off and wriggling around on the floor because she was so wasted and out of it.” Julie sighed happily, thrilled that I had helped her rescue a nearly forgotten memory.

  “Remember how people were asking her if she was on acid or ’shrooms or something? We were like, ‘No acid. Three beers.’ ”

  “That was awesome. I wish I had taken some pictures instead of helping her back to her room.”

  “Oh, Julie, you’re such a Good Samaritan.” I laughed.

  “Good Samaritan, my ass. I just thought we were going to get caught for drinking in our room. I couldn’t throw that bitch into her own room fast enough. I would’ve stapled her mouth shut if I had the means.” I could hear her pouring what sounded like pop over ice.

  “You got her back later in the year when you peed outside her room,” I reminded.

  “That wasn’t my fault. The bathroom was locked and I really had to go.” I heard her take a long drink and sigh.

  “Locked or required the turning of the knob and you didn’t have the motor skills at the time to do so?”

  “Who can remember?” she sighed. “Hey, so I think I’m finally ready to go on another Internet date.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Next weekend. Oh, but hey, do you want to go out tonight? I have an extra Second City ticket.”

  I sighed. “I wish. I have Ash Leigh’s first birthday party tomorrow and I need to be at full strength to deal with the giant disease that party’s going to be. Want to come and keep me company?”

  “I’d rather give myself a Brazilian bikini wax while on a Tilt-A-Whirl,” she practically shouted into the phone.

  “Funny,” I said. I paused for a moment.

  Screw it. I have to talk to her about it. I’ve turned to Julie for advice about every major life decision I’ve made; the choice to keep working or stay at home definitely qualifies.

  “So, I need to talk to you about something,” I said quickly.

  “Oh no. You’re pregnant again, right? Keep your pants on!” Julie sputtered.

  “No! Lord, no!” I waved my arms around as though she could see me. “Not even close. And hopefully this won’t be even more terrifying for you, but I, um, am considering the idea of staying at home.” I closed my eyes and winced slightly. It was still hard to say out loud with any conviction. “But just considering,” I quickly added.

  There was a long pause and I thought she’d dropped dead.

  “No fucking way,” Julie whispered into the phone.

  “Tell me about it,” I said as I leaned forward and put my head onto my kitchen countertop.

  “Well,” she said thoughtfully. “You’d never have to deal with Mule Face again, so that’s a bonus.”

  “True,” I said.

  “I mean, I honestly can’t picture you being a stay-at-home mom, but whatever. If you think you’d be happy. But what would you do all day?” Julie whispered.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m sure I’d be busy. I’d be with Sara. I’d love to ask Reese, but I suspect that question is slightly loaded, like, asking a working mom how she ‘does it.’ There’s judgment implied, even though I really wouldn’t mean it like that. I’m just honestly curious.”

  “Yeah, definitely. She gets pissed off really easily,” Julie said.

  Pot, meet kettle, I thought.

  “Anyway, whatever you decide, I’ll be happy for you.”

  My shoulders slumped with relief that she chose not to remind me of my college diatribes on Why Women Should Work.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  “No prob, Donna Reed,” Julie said with a laugh.

  Sunday, June 22

  An open letter to the attendees of Ash Leigh’s birthday party:

  Dear All:

  I’m not like you. Get over it.

  That means I don’t wear a fanny pack or Mom Jeans. I don’t know how to make anything involving a slow cooker. I don’t know how to make nut-free treats for afternoon play group (which I can’t attend because—let’s review: I work), but I’m very good at ordering takeout, does that count?

  One more thing: My daughter is not even a year old yet. Please do not ask when I’m having the next one. I’ll have the next one just as soon as we figure out a way for Jake to get pregnant.

  Also? Dressing yourself and your child in matching Crocs does not a good fashion statement make. So please put on something else. Your shoes are burning my eyes.

  While I acknowledge your child is cute, I did not want to see five hundred pictures of her at Halloween, her rolling over, her next to a farm animal or picking her nose. M’kay? Find something else to talk about other than The Time Little Jackie Caught Croup or your son’s bowel movements. I have a kid and I have plenty to talk about. Try reading a newspaper or picking up a book once in a while.

  And? Lady with the bowl haircut à la the little kid on Family Ties? You blow. I don’t care your kid started sleeping through the night, or STTN as you called it, at six weeks. You are not a better mother than I am because my kid wants to party all night long rather than sleeping in her crib for fifteen hours straight. I will not bow down to you like the other loser moms there who fawned all over you, fetched you cocktails, and exchanged onion soup mix recipes.

  And earth to the lady wearing overalls. First off, overalls are cute on kids. Adults, unless employed as carnival workers, should not wear them. By the way? It’s not called baby weight when your kid is eighteen. You don’t need to “lose a few pounds left over from the pregnancy.” After two years, “baby weight” turns into “fat.” News flash: you look like you should be on the Facts of Life reunion special. Repeatedly grabbing your muffin top, stretching it, complaining about it, showing me the stretch marks on your boobs, and then crying about how your husband would rather watch Monday Night Football than have sex with you made me want to kill myself. Please also tell your husband I didn’t enjoy him repeatedly grabbing my ass.

  While I know I’m still pretty soft around the middle, I choose not to draw literal attention to it and reveal my fat to strangers. There’s these girdle things called Spanx and they work awesome.

  I would also like to remind you all I did not, repeat: did not, dress Sara that day. As you may recall, I met Jake and Sara at the party since I had to run some errands. My husband, not I, chose her outfit. If I dressed my daughter in a onesie and pants, I would at least know to snap the onesie at the crotch, under the pants, rather than allowing the front and back flaps to hang freely over her jeans and flap in the breeze. Had I been home I also would have asked Jake to seriously rethink his outfit of light-colored 1987-style jeans paired with a black waffle-weave Henley shirt and brown loafers. You all knew he was a technology geek before he even presented his debate on LCD versus Plasma.

  Oh, and thanks for so sweetly comparing my job as an event planner to the time you planned your parents’ anniversary party. Now that you mention it, pulling off a black-tie gala that raises over a million dollars is just like gluing old photos of your parents to a poster board and baking frozen puff pastry appetizers.

  And speaking of my job, thanks for telling me that you think that the ladies at day-care are “raising” Sara. I debated telling you about the current decision in front of me, but you all proved that you share but one brain cell and not a shred of compassion. You guys rule!

  Clare

  P.S. Sorry. I think my life decisions are slowly turning me into a stressed-out bitch. Much like the ring that turned that Gollum guy in those Lord of the Rings movies that Jake forced me to watch under the guise of “Oscar-Nominated Movie Night.”

  Wednesday, July 2

  I just read back over my last entry about the tragedy of attending Ash Leigh’s birthday party. And I pretty much want to punch myself in the face.

  Because complaining about attending an annoying birthday party?

 
Grow up. There are bigger things to worry about—like today. My mom is starting chemo today.

  A huge part of me wants to ignore it, crawl under my huge fluffy down comforter, stare at the grainy pattern of my jersey-knit sheets, and pretend that I’m still a little kid, playing hide-and-seek with Mark, and my only worry is whether or not I’ll get the newest My Little Pony for Christmas. (It wasn’t even a true worry: I always did.)

  It’s hard to look at Sara sometimes since she turns me into a very un-Clare-like ball of mush anyway. And she reminds me so much of my mom. So well, yeah … open up the goddamn floodgates.

  Is it wrong I desperately want to regress, pretend I don’t have a kid and go out dancing?

  Or do something. Anything other than be an adult right now.

  Jake and I have had the “She’ll be fine, everything is OK, blah blah blah” conversation about fifty gazillion times over the past twenty-four hours. He won’t even let me express my fears. The second I start to say, “But what if …” he holds his hand up in the air, waves it around, and somewhat harshly tells me that I can’t think like that.

  I know I can’t.

  But it’s all I think about.

  I talked to her an hour ago. She said she’s fine, just a little tired. She said the effects won’t really kick in for a few days, so next week should be a doozy.

  I finally broke down and wrote an entry about my mom on my blog yesterday. I made Jake read the comments and delete any that weren’t totally OMG! OF COURSE SHE’LL BE FINE!!!! YOUR MOM IS AWESOME!!! YAY!!! TEAM CLARE’S MOM!!!!! He did show me one e-mail from a Chiquita75 who suggested I take my mom out to Hooters when she’s feeling better. Now that is the best idea I’ve heard in a long time.

  Jake did his part today by renting out every gross-out funny movie from Blockbuster and continuously fetching me Popsicles.