Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  Greg became exactly what he said he was going to in college—I’ve moved so far from that line that it’s disappeared. If my goals have changed so drastically, does it just mean that they’re adapting or that I’ve just given up? How much can my former dreams change before all of the good stuff gets edited out, like what my high school English teacher used to do to my creative writing assignments?

  I have no answers, only questions. Like how was I supposed to prepare for Sara? She changed everything. How was I supposed to know that being apart from her would feel like a body part was missing? How was I supposed to know that having a child would make everything else in my life more muted?

  Tuesday, August 19

  No rest for the weary.

  Or it is no rest for the wicked?

  Regardless, Sara’s decided to adopt both as her motto.

  Sara woke up every two hours last night, something she hasn’t done in forever. Finally, around 3:00 a.m. or so, I closed her door, turned off the monitor, and decided to let her cry. Of course, I’ll bet she fell asleep at 3:08 a.m. I’m sure her day-care teachers are going be thrilled with her today. Actually, she’ll probably be a total angel for her teachers and have a meltdown the second I get her home.

  As I sipped my coffee and blearily stared at my computer monitor this morning, my phone rang shrilly, jolting me out of my walking dead state. I sluggishly picked up my phone. “Clare Finnegan,” I croaked.

  “Yes, I’m looking for Clare Finnegan?” a woman’s voice said.

  “This is she,” I said.

  “Clare, my name is Elise Stansfield. You gave me your card a while back, if you recall.”

  I stiffened my spine, grabbed a pen, and crossed my legs. “Oh yes. Elise, thank you so much for calling. How can I help you?”

  “Well, I’m planning, or should I say trying to plan, my daughter’s sixteenth birthday party. I figured it would be a small party, one I could manage myself, but it’s become completely out-of-control.”

  “They usually are,” I said. “Sixteenth birthday parties are a pretty big deal. We do a lot of them at our firm.”

  “So I’m learning. Anyway, I checked your firm out and you came very highly recommended by Carolyn Wittenberg.”

  Carolyn Wittenberg? That coldhearted bitch actually recommended me? I worked on an event for her last year, and she reminded me of Cruella De Vil. If she were Satan’s mistress.

  “Oh yes. I truly enjoyed working with Carolyn last year.”

  “Well, I want to come in this afternoon to discuss what you can do for this event.”

  I closed my eyes and pumped my fist in the air, catching Mule Face’s attention as she walked past my office. She stopped and stood in the doorjamb, blatantly listening.

  “Of course, I can make myself available for whenever you are free.”

  “Good. Two thirty OK?” she said.

  “Perfect. See you then, Elise,” I said, and hung up the phone. I smugly smiled and pretended to brush some imaginary dust off my cherry desk.

  “Who was that?” Mule Face finally asked.

  “What? Oh, hi, Annie,” I said with my best I-didn’t-even-know-you-were-standing-there-as-I-am-so-busy-and-important-and-aren’t-you-just-dying-to-know-who-I-was-talking-to?

  “How’s it going?” she said casually as she opened a bag of potato chips.

  “Great. You?” I knew I was driving her insane.

  ”Who was that?” She finally caved.

  “Oh, just a prospective client. I really can’t say anything yet. Hopefully I’ll have some good news,” I said, and tapped my pen against my computer keyboard.

  “Mmmm,” she said. She turned and wiped her greasy fingers on my doorjamb as she left.

  I checked my makeup and hair every five minutes from 1:30 p.m. on and lint-rolled my black suit until it was basically threadbare.

  At three o’clock, there was still no sign and I gave up.

  I threw my hair in a ponytail, rolled up the sleeves of my white blouse, and discreetly unbuttoned my still-too-tight-due-to-leftover-pregnancy-weight pants. Just as I’d settled in, Abby appeared at my door.

  “Clare, Elise Stansfield is here for you,” she said, looking somewhat bewildered.

  “Really? Oh! OK, put her in the conference room and tell her I’ll be just a minute.” I quickly brushed my hair, smoothed my shirt, and sucked in my stomach to re-button my pants. I walked down the hallway, past an openmouthed Mule Face, and breezed into the conference room.

  “Elise, hi. How are you? So nice to see you again,” I said smoothly, and walked over to shake her hand.

  “Clare, I’m well,” she said. She stood next to the window in the conference room. She looked straight off the pages of Town & Country magazine. Her red cashmere twinset and stone-khaki pants were perfectly pressed and her brown suede Tod’s driving moccasins probably cost more than my entire outfit. Her signature blond hair was pulled back tightly in a knot at the nape of her neck.

  She walked over and sat down in one of the high-backed leather chairs.

  “Did you find the office OK?” I asked her.

  “Fine, fine,” she said, and deposited an enormous Burberry plaid bag on the conference table. She put on a pair of Coach tortoise frames and rifled through her bag. She pulled out a pen and paper and looked expectantly at me.

  Go time.

  “Sixteenth birthday party. Here’s what I’ve come up with: We hold it at a private home, either yours or one that we rent, it’s more personal that way. The entire event will take place in a heated tent. The theme will be ‘An Evening in Paris.’ Various Cirque du Soleil performers will enact different routines throughout the evening, some suspended from the ceiling of the tent. In the center of the tent will be twenty-foot-tall ice sculptures of the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe. Tables arranged in a circular pattern, with a lounge area off to the side, draped in white with red lights. A water bar stocked with flavored water for guests as they arrive. A candy sculptor during the cocktail hour designing custom sculptures made of candy. A backdrop of old video and photos of your daughter, all reshot in eight-millimeter for nostalgic appeal. Sixteen thousand balloons released at midnight and gift bags with a custom lip gloss and perfume named after your daughter.”

  I took a deep breath and sat back in my chair and waited for her reaction.

  She put her pen down on her still-blank pad of paper and took her frames off.

  I thought I totally blew it.

  She looked back behind her out the window and slowly turned back to me.

  “Sounds good. Let’s get started,” she said, and stood up.

  “Oh! Great! OK! Um, let’s set up a time to meet with your daughter so we can run this past her.” I was slightly thrown, as I thought this was a pitch-session meeting rather than a “let’s do it” meeting.

  Elise waved her hand around. “She says she doesn’t care. You plan it all,” she said, and slung her bag around her shoulder.

  “Er, Elise, in my experience, they always care. Believe me, my sister is around the same age and there’s very little she doesn’t have an opinion about.” I knew I might’ve been overstepping my bounds, but the last thing I need right now is to spend eighty hours conceptualizing this party to have it all thrown out by a teenaged “no effing way.”

  Elise stopped and laughed. “Good point. We’ll come in next week. Call me in a few days to set it up.”

  Before I could respond, she was gone and all that was left was a faint odor of Dior perfume and my still-shaking fingers.

  Christina popped her head into the conference room.

  “Was that Elise Stansfield?” she asked, and crossed her arms over her beautiful Chanel knit jacket.

  “The one and only,” I said nonchalantly as I stood up.

  “Are you working with her?”

  “I’m helping her plan her daughter’s birthday.”

  “That’s great!” Christina said, and raised her eyebrows. “How did you land her as a client?”

&
nbsp; I shrugged casually. “I met her while out in the city one night.”

  “That’s fantastic.” Christina paused for a moment and clucked a little before she walked back into her office.

  As soon as I sat down in my office, an e-mail from Mule Face popped up. It read: That’s fantastic!!!!!!!!! Don’t mess this one up or you’ll be screwed!!!!

  Ha. Mess this one up? This event is going to be the crown jewel of my portfolio. I’m just hoping I can pull it off and not miss any more of Sara’s bedtime. It’s time to find the balance, time to give my career and being a working mom a good run. Because I love my job; when I’m running an event, I’m in control.

  I can do this. I can pull off this event without affecting my time with Sara—but not without some help. I need to hire an assistant immediately to carry some of the load.

  Wednesday, August 20

  Despite my professional coup in landing Elise Stansfield as a client, and re-posting the assistant position on the Internet, it’s hard to be anything other than depressed today. Reese called me last night and said Matt is moving out today. He’s renting an apartment in the city, and while there’s still no official drawing up of divorce papers, it’s not looking like they’re going to be living happily ever after any time soon.

  I never thought it would come to this. Yeah, she’s so much better off and I think Matt is a total scumbag, but I always foolishly thought he’d come to his senses and wake the hell up or something and turn into the husband Reese deserves. But she’s going to be so much better off.

  Yet it still feels like we’re all getting old enough to turn yet another of life’s corners: divorce. There was a time a few years ago when everyone was getting married and rah-rah. Then, it was time for kids. But then what?

  Now I know. Silly me. I thought it would be getting eight hours of sleep. But no.

  It’s Divorce.

  Friday, August 22

  Sara’s scooting around on her belly. The first signs of crawling, according to Dr. Spock, she does this little army crawl where she propels herself forward by kicking her feet and swimming with her arms. She did it for the first time last night. I know because Jake told me.

  I was detained in another late staff meeting. Christina sent an e-mail out around 4:00 p.m., asking everyone to meet in a half hour. Knowing that our meetings usually last at least an hour, I asked Jake to pick Sara up at day-care. We were supposed to meet our Realtor to look at a house, so we canceled that, too.

  As I drove home sometime around 6:00 p.m., Jake called me and screeched into the phone that Sara had propelled herself across the carpet and tried to hit the cat. I didn’t get to see it.

  I arrived home an hour later, thanks to rush-hour traffic, and she was already in bed. All that movement had knocked her out.

  I missed everything: another milestone, her shrieks as she excitedly pulled herself across the room, rocking her to sleep at night, kissing her good night.

  When she’s not with me, I feel like I’m an amputee—like this significant part of me is missing. And tonight makes me feel like I just got punched in my sawed-off arm.

  Thursday, August 28

  Mornings have become a routine. Get Sara up at 7:00 a.m. Spend fifteen minutes playing with her. Jake showers and gets ready. He takes Sara. I shower and get ready. Jake leaves for work. I pack Sara in the car and drop her off at day care. I kiss her good-bye and hug her close and drive the five minutes to work.

  It’s become such a routine now, emotion doesn’t always register. It’s simply lather, rinse, repeat. I still think about her a million times during the day and wonder what she’s doing, who’s entertaining her, when she ate last, and if she misses me. But for the most part, it’s gotten a helluva lot easier.

  Then there are the days when I take fifty steps backward and want to drive to day-care, snatch her up, and drive off into the sunset.

  Like today.

  I decided to celebrate landing the Stansfield party and take myself out to lunch. Alone. I never do anything like that, but I decided to take advantage of being a working mom and enjoy my lunch hour in a restaurant, reading the newspaper, rather than trying to wrangle my daughter while choking down a chicken salad sandwich.

  Just as I’d ordered a drink and settled in with the latest movie reviews, a well-dressed mother walked in and pushed her gorgeous pram to the table next to mine. I smiled at her and went back to reading about the latest Cate Blanchett movie. Or, at least, I tried to. My mind kept wandering and I found myself repeatedly staring at her. A few times, she caught my eye, so I had to pretend I was signaling the waiter so she wouldn’t fear I was a kidnapper waiting for the right moment to snatch her child.

  I was so drawn to her because of how happy and relaxed she seemed. Just her and her baby out for lunch. I envisioned she would leisurely shop later, strolling through the stores, biding her time until she found the perfect pair of jeans or heels. After that, she’d head home and start a fantastic dinner and read some of her new book while the baby napped. And my face started to flush with envy.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten more minutes until I had to be back at the office. No leisurely lunch, no shopping, no reading, no time with Sara, no anything. In fact, if I calculated it, I’d probably see Mule Face more than Sara today.

  Yet I still love my job, my clients, my work. It gives me a satisfaction and sense of accomplishment that I can’t find anywhere else.

  I wish I could call my mom and talk to her about this, but she’s still feeling really crappy. Besides, every time I talk to her about this, if I question my decision at all, she seems to get defensive and we enter into a whole “What My Generation Did for Your Generation” lecture.

  Growing up, I was proud to tell my class on Career Day that my mom was a Vice President. But there are the opposite memories, the ones that exist in the black spaces, of not understanding when she said she couldn’t be a chaperone on class trips or make me a snack after school each day. I wanted to understand, I tried to understand, but it didn’t register in my young mind why my mom wouldn’t rather be home making me cookies than flying around the country.

  And as much as I hate to acknowledge those memories, I have to. If I choose to keep working, I will inevitably pass those down to Sara in some form. It’s not fair to her to pretend those emotions don’t exist.

  It’s like there’s no way to win. Some days, I’ll wish I could stay home with her. Then the wind changes and I’m so happy to go work, I look forward to dropping her off at day care. And I can’t even feel either one of those things without feeling shame.

  And pretty much every mom I’ve ever met has said the same thing. No matter what the choice, there’s always something nagging and whispering, making choices malleable and questionable.

  If this is what’s considered “having it all,” I’m jumping ship. Because I feel like it’s impossible to do everything 50 percent, let alone a figure any higher.

  And? Right now? The only thing I’m truly good at is beating myself up.

  Friday, August 29

  At least I can always count on Julie to lighten things up.

  I called her last night in the wake of my Irrational Working Mother Guilt and Anger Carnival, and she managed to say all the right things: I’m a good mom, I’m great at my job, Jake is awesome, et cetera.

  But then I stumped her: “Yeah, but Jules, sometimes I feel like I’ve chosen the path of most resistance, you know?”

  Silence.

  “Like I’ve made all these choices, and they were good ones, and ones I don’t regret, but I put myself in this position. I’m the one who stretched myself so thin.”

  Silence again.

  “Everything seems so … hard all the time.”

  “That’s because it is,” Julie said shortly.

  “I know, but with working and not sleeping and finding time for Sara and Jake.”

  “But who doesn’t live like that? Who has an easy life? Nobody I know. So stop feeling so goddamned sorry for yourself
and just live your life.” Julie’s voice came out evenly, despite her words.

  “I know, it’s just like sometimes I wonder what it would be like if— Never mind. Just tell me something funny and change the subject,” I said.

  So, she told me about her latest Internet date. Apparently, she was supposed to go to a blues festival with a new guy, Johnny. I interrupted her to ask her who goes by “Johnny” when they’re thirty, but she threw out a profanity, so I shut up.

  Julie and Johnny needed to stop at a bank to take out money for the festival. The ATM is broken, so Johnny pulls up to a bank teller portal. He puts his ATM card into the pneumatic tube and leans out the window to send it back to the bank but misjudges the distance and drops it.

  Julie rolls her eyes and laughs but is starting to think Johnny is sort of cute. Johnny gets out of the car and tries to reach the tube, which has now rolled under his car. Except it has rolled just out of his reach. So, with cars beginning to honk behind them, he goes around to the other side of the car.

  Still couldn’t reach it.

  By now Julie’s beginning to wonder what the hell was going on.

  He ran around to the other side, still no dice. Just out of reach.

  Then, the bank teller came over the loudspeaker and said, “Sir, this isn’t an amusement park. What are you doing?”

  Well, apparently, “amusement” and “park” were the secret buzzwords that turned Johnny from a normal human being into Crazy Internet Blind Date Man.

  Johnny jumped up and down, shook his fist at the bank teller, screamed at all of the cars honking behind them, and ordered Julie to “army crawl” under the car to get the tube.

  She calmly told him to go fuck himself, gave him the finger, and hailed a cab.

  She may think my life is difficult, but at least my chaos exists internally rather than including all of the customers at my local bank’s branch.

  Saturday, August 30