Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  “What house?” I said cautiously. I started to mentally build my armor.

  “You know, that one you showed Mom. That one with the garage that faces the street. I just hate those kinds of houses. It looks like a trailer.” Sam shuddered, as though the thought of someone buying a non-custom-made house terrified her.

  I shot a pointed look at my mom but chose to remain silent for the well-being of all the restaurant patrons around us. We ate our lunch in silence, my mom afraid to spark a confrontation and Sam and I glaring at each other.

  “I totally have to stop in the bathroom. I think I just got my P,” Sam said as we walked out of the café.

  “P?” I parroted.

  “Um, hi. Period?” Sam said as she rifled through her bag. “Damn! I don’t have a tampon.”

  “Oh, I think I might have one,” I said as we walked into the bathroom. “Here you go,” I said, and outstretched my arm.

  She stared at me and slowly took the tampon from me.

  “What?” I said.

  She looked confused, but her face suddenly changed, as though the lightbulb went off. “Oh, you probably have so many left over.”

  “What?” I said again.

  “Left over. Since you can’t use them anymore,” she said.

  “What are you talking about, Sam?” my mom said.

  “You can’t use tampons anymore after you have a baby,” she said very matter-of-factly.

  My mom and I looked at each other. “You can’t?” she said.

  “No, because it’ll totally fall out,” Sam whispered.

  My mom and I threw our heads back and roared.

  “What?” Sam said.

  I waved my arms around and tried to catch my breath and explain to her that yes, in fact, women can use tampons after they have babies. Everything kind of … goes back.

  But she didn’t let me explain.

  “WHAT? YOU GUYS SUCK,” she said, and stormed into a bathroom stall.

  After my mom wiped the tears from her eyes, she tried to explain basic physiology to Sam, who was having none of it.

  “OK. Jeez. Whatever. It’s so not a big deal. Effing drop it, OK?” she spit through the door.

  “So, hired an assistant yet?” my mom asked as we walked through the shoe department.

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “I’m so proud of you, hon. Moving up the ladder and advancing your career.” My mom’s voice swelled with pride.

  I nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. “Yeah.”

  “You’re going to be just like Diane Keaton in Baby Boom. Successful, professional mom.” She stopped and considered a black leather flat.

  I took a step toward her. “Mom, that movie terrifies me. It’s like why would I enjoy a movie about a woman who is overworked, torn, and feels guilty all of the time? I’m already familiar with those feelings.” I picked up a tan boot, turning it over to glance at the price. I still wasn’t ready to buy all new clothes yet, since the “baby weight” was clinging on for dear life, but I reasoned that I could buy shoes, as my feet weren’t hefty anymore. I’d quickly discovered that my body hangs on to fat when I’m stressed. Thus, I’m looking forward to being skinny, oh, never.

  She set the flat back on the display. “But I thought you loved working.”

  I pretended to study the heel of the boot. “I—” I stopped as Sam shoved herself in between us and thrust a sparkly belt into my mom’s hands, presumably for purchase.

  “Why would she love working? Ew. I’m never working. I’m going to be a stay-at-home mom and change my name when I get married.” Sam shook her head back and forth.

  “You say that now, but—” my mom started to say when Sam interrupted.

  “No way. I don’t want to,” Sam said firmly.

  My mom’s head moved back a little, reeling from shock. “Well, you can choose whatever you like, but I guess I’m just a little surprised that you are so willing to make different choices. I just thought you were proud of the way you were raised.”

  I stepped forward and put a hand on my mom’s arm. “We are. But that’s what it’s all about, right? Making choices. And maybe”—I shifted uncomfortably from left to right—“maybe we might choose to make different ones at some point.”

  My mom sighed and nodded. “Of course, I just want you girls to be happy, whatever that might entail.”

  I leaned forward and hugged her. We quickly broke apart as we heard Sam shriek, “MOM! Tory Burch is on sale! I’ll die if I don’t get new sandals!”

  I laughed and walked behind my mom.

  I just want to be happy, too—if only I knew how to get there.

  Thursday, September 11

  “IT’S ALIVE!”

  —Dr. Henry Frankenstein

  Within the past twenty-four hours, life changed dramatically.

  No longer can Jake and I lazily drop our laptop bags on the ground, safe in the knowledge that they will remain untouched until morning. No longer can I wait to sweep up any stray food that falls onto the floor. No longer can Butterscotch lounge comfortably in Sara’s old bouncy seat.

  It happened. She’s mobile.

  Last week, Sara started her creeping. It looked like a half-drunk army crawl but backward, like a crab. Jake and I laughed at the novelty, not truly comprehending the slippery slope we were about to go down. We also figured she’d creep around for a few months or something before she got the strength or motivation to do anything else. But last night we put her down on the ground to show Frank and Marianne her fabulous shimmying skills and she rocked a few times, then quickly went into a full-blown crawl.

  We sat in stunned silence, watching her head straight for the sleeping cat. She shrieked louder and louder in excitement with every inch covered between her and Butterscotch. He froze, unsure of how to react to the tiny drooling person heading full-steam toward him. She stopped suddenly in front of him, looked back at us, sitting on the couch with our mouths open, smiled, and then reached forward and yanked on his tail with all of her might.

  I think villagers in Bangladesh heard the screech.

  Butterscotch scrambled away, but not before looking over his left shoulder and giving her one good HSSSSSS (translation: “I hate you”) before running into the bedroom, stomach swinging back and forth and skimming the floor.

  We hoped it was a onetime thing, like the time I tried peppermint schnapps.

  Right.

  She moved her little butt all over the apartment and managed to get near every electrical socket. We spent the rest of the evening chasing after her, trying to contain her like a new puppy.

  It was hard to get frustrated, though, since she was so excited about her newfound mobility. She shrieked and yelped with excitement at everything she fondled. Unfortunately, most of those things were Not Child Appropriate, like some cigars left over from a bachelor party, a bottle of Sirah, and kitty litter.

  As I watched her groove around the room, I suddenly felt like crying. It was so neat to watch her learn a new skill, grow up just a little more, but it also means she really isn’t an infant anymore. She’s become a baby. She’s become a little person. She’s become a little girl. I’m excited about this and the other things to come, like talking, but it also means letting go of the wrinkly newborn I took home from the hospital just a few short months ago. She’s growing up so fast, and I feel like a cup that will never be filled—like I’ll never spend enough time with her, never walk out the door without missing her immediately. And I guess I just have to come to terms with that. Because I doubt it’s ever going away.

  It’s like to move forward as parents, we have to keep letting go, like a lead rope we’re following along blind into the woods; to move to the next tree, we have to let go of the rope and take a step forward.

  But for now, at least for now, I’m going to stand still, close my eyes, and hold her to me before I take another step forward. (Or she does. Please let walking be at least six months away.)

  Friday, September 12

/>   Thanks to Sara’s newfound wacked-out baybee skillz, Jake and I stayed up until the wee hours of the night (OK, more like midnight) baby-proofing everything new we could possibly imagine to be harmful. We had figured we still had a while to do so, but clearly it was Do or Sara Might Die time.

  Jake put a hand on my arm and stopped me just as I attempted to pad the corners of the kitchen cabinets with Saran wrap. I realize it was going a touch too far, but suddenly everything in our apartment has become the Boogeyman. Pens, drink coasters, a stray pebble of cat food, an errant thread from the carpet are not simply things anymore. They’re Things That Might Injure My Child, which makes them the enemy. I’ve declared war on anything within Sara’s reach, and now our home looks as comfortable as a mental hospital. No shoelaces, no sharp objects, every surface padded so as not to scrape her soft little knees.

  I plied myself with copious amounts of caffeine this morning in an attempt to appear somewhat human, since my new assistant is starting today and I don’t think my spending most of the day yawning and slumped over at my desk will provide the best first impression.

  Not to mention she’s starting at the perfect time. I’m starting to feel really overwhelmed and worried that the ball’s going to get dropped for the golf outing.

  I decided to hire Miss Teen USA, mainly because Betty Crocker had already accepted another position. I immediately questioned my decision to hire her when she appeared at my office door wearing a skirt a good three inches above her kneecaps, knee-high black boots, and a tight white long-sleeved T-shirt. It was like Hookers Gone Professional.

  “Good morning!” Keri chirped as she took a big swig of the fountain drink in her hand.

  “How are you?” I said, and stood up from my desk. I extended my right hand and she shook it limply.

  “I’m good. Little tired. Late night last night. Le Passage,” she said, and nodded at me.

  “Oh. OK,” I said.

  “You’ve been, right?” she said.

  “I don’t think so, is it a restaurant?” I knew I sounded like a Huge Dork.

  “Uh, no,” she said. “It’s a club.”

  “Hey there! Welcome to our fantastic office!” Mule Face appeared at my door. She was wearing a leopard-print metallic jacket with black Capri pants that had little beads dangling from the bottom. Let’s just say animal prints should not be worn by individuals weighing a couple hundred bills.

  Keri looked startled. “Hi. Hey.” She shot me a bewildered look.

  “Keri, this is Annie. She’s another event planner. Keri’s my new assistant,” I said to Mule Face.

  “Wow! You and Clare are going to have so much fun! Thank God you’re here! She’s been really forgetful lately!” Mule Face reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a piece of saltwater taffy. She popped it into her mouth and rolled it around.

  I smiled sweetly at her and hoped the candy would pull out all of her dental work.

  “Thanks. Glad to be here,” Keri said, shooting me another who the hell is this person? look.

  “So, Keri. Listen. Do you like scented body lotions?” Mule Face asked.

  “I should really show Keri her desk. Thanks for stopping in.” I took a step forward and practically shoved Mule Face into the hallway.

  “Word of warning, don’t buy the face cream,” I whispered to Keri as we walked over to the cubicle outside my office. “Information Services should be here shortly to configure your e-mail and phone and everything. Today, I just figure you can answer the phone and get your bearings. We’ll discuss current projects and events tomorrow. Sound good?” I said.

  She looked from me to the desk quickly and sat down. “Sure,” she said. “So what’s going on?”

  “It’s been crazy around here. I just started a new project, so there’s been a few late nights already,” I said, and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “I hear ya. So—hey! Are you married?” she said, and grabbed my left hand.

  “Yep, few years now,” I said, and jiggled my ring finger.

  “Wow, I wouldn’t have guessed,” she said, and released my hand and sat back in her chair. She took a long sip from her drink and said, “So what part of the city do you live in?”

  I laughed. “Haven’t lived in the city for a while now. I did right out of college, though. Loved it. Just got ready to move to a bigger place.”

  “So you live in the …” She paused and whispered, “Suburbs?”

  “Unfortunately,” I said, and smiled. “But it is nice with my daughter to have the extra room. She just started crawling.”

  Keri’s mouth dropped open and she looked like her head was going to explode. “You have a kid?”

  OK, now I really felt ancient.

  “She’s eight months old,” I said proudly.

  “Whoa,” Keri said, and sipped on her drink. She paused, narrowed her eyes at me, and said, “So how old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-nine,” I said.

  “Really? I thought you were much younger,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, so I just said, “Most people do.”

  “That must be weird, I mean, for people to think you’re younger when you have a baby,” Keri mused.

  “Sometimes people ask me if I’m my daughter’s babysitter,” I said, and leaned against Keri’s desk.

  “I bet,” she said thoughtfully.

  “And the dishwasher repairman the other day said not to forget to tell my parents what’s wrong with the rinse cycle,” I added.

  We sat in silence for a moment while Keri pondered my evidently well-hidden adulthood and I pondered the great divide between us before I quickly straightened.

  “So, let’s plan on having lunch together in a few hours, OK?” I said, and she nodded.

  I walked back to my office and sat down at my desk. According to her résumé, Keri graduated from college a year ago. That would make her about twenty-two or twenty-three. Only about six years younger than me.

  Six years ago, I wasn’t even married yet.

  Six years ago, my choices were vast, the waters of my path unchartered.

  Six years ago, I knew what the hippest clubs were, I knew when the hottest restaurants opened, I lived in the city, wore designer clothes, and went out every night.

  Six years later, I prefer restaurants like Applebee’s, since Sara can have a meltdown without anyone really caring; most of my clothes are crusted with either baby food, drool, or spit-up; and last night I fell asleep at 9:00 p.m.

  I’m not even a cool working mom, with a fantastically awesome phone and teeny-tiny laptop. Nope, I probably have more in common with Mule Face these days than Keri.

  I used to be Hip Clare. Now, thanks to a few extra Sara pounds still lingering, I’m Hippy Clare.

  It’s official. The transformation is complete.

  Wednesday, September 17

  Jake, sensing my growing frustration, decided we needed a night out together, as people rather than parents, so he took me out to dinner last night. A chance to go out together without worrying about who was going to have to change the diaper explosion halfway through the first drink. A chance to stop and catch my breath—especially timely since Elise is bringing her daughter Logan in tomorrow and I’d like to be somewhat presentable.

  Marianne babysat, which Jake and I paid for with a tiny corner of our sanity, of course. The important thing is we got to spend a night out together, as adults.

  Marianne arrived at our apartment, and before I could even take her coat she started waltzing around our place, pointing out uncovered sharp surfaces and kicking invisible bits of dust with her toe. She also admonished me for dressing Sara in a blue creeper, since it made her look like a boy, apparently. And girls should always “look like the little princesses that they are.” Whatever. It was a free babysitter.

  Jake and I went to one of those supercliché fondue restaurants. I always kind of laughed at the people who go to those, but seeing as how our favorite re
staurants are of the chainlike variety and usually give out free balloons at the front door, a fondue restaurant seemed right up our alley.

  Ah, how the mighty have fallen.

  Thanks to the wobbly flesh still sitting around my midsection, low-rise jeans and tight-fitting tops don’t exactly fit the same way, so I dressed up by wearing my favorite pair of heels. I still have hope that the muffin top will go away, but Reese insists it’s permanent, regardless of weight. She said it’s a well-kept secret of motherhood. I look at her tiny body, perfect once again after having Brendan just a short while ago, and secretly want to feed her a few doughnuts.

  I figured Jake and I would spend the evening chatting about the latest non-fiction bestsellers, current world events, our ideas for an exit strategy in Iraq, the upcoming presidential elections, and our predictions for the Oscars next year.

  Right.

  We talked about Sara. We talked about how cute she is. We talked about how big she is. We talked about who she looks like more. We talked about how long her naps are. We talked about winning the lottery and buying her a pony and a life-sized Barbie dream house. And we lamented about how much we missed her.

  And then I started talking about how difficult everything has become. How I feel like I’m sucking at everything—my job, motherhood, marriage.

  Everything.

  How the weight of all of the expectations that surround me is surely going to bring me down.

  And Jake said: “I love you and I think you’re doing amazing.”

  As I looked at him and nodded, I realized he truly meant it. That he believed it.

  “It’s so hard, because I feel like I have to choose a team. Whatever I do. And whatever team you’re on, that’s your allegiance, that’s who you root for. It’s like you can’t root for the White Sox and the Cubs at the same time. If I stay home with Sara, I feel like I will still identify with working moms more,” I said.

  Jake looked at me critically. “Really?”

  I nodded as I twirled my water glass on the table. “It’s like to convince yourself you’ve made the right decision, you have to inherently believe that the other choice is the wrong one.”