Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  12:37 A.M.

  My head is pounding. I got into bed an hour ago and tried to fall asleep. Jake, of course, is soundly asleep next to me, snoring lightly. Sara is peacefully floating on her dream cloud. I, on the other hand, have been spinning and spinning for the last hour with no end in sight.

  The conversation started as soon as Jake laid Sara in her crib and closed her bedroom door.

  “So, so, so! What do you think? Should we get it? I think we should get it! Let’s put a bid in tonight! I love it, love it, love it!” Jake practically hopped around in front of me.

  “Let’s sit down and talk,” I said.

  We walked into the living room, well, more like I walked and he threw himself joyfully down on the couch.

  “Didn’t you like it?” he asked me.

  “Of course I did,” I said slowly as I tucked my feet underneath me like a cat.

  “But?”

  “But.” I stopped, then shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said again. I couldn’t bring myself to vocalize my innermost thoughts.

  “Clare, you have to tell me what you’re thinking,” he said lightly.

  “OK,” I said, and stared out the window for a minute. “It’s just—just that … OK, don’t get mad,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows at me.

  “It’s just … if we buy this house … I’m afraid if I decide to stay home … you lose your job …” I trailed off.

  He leaned forward a little. “I’m not going to lose my job.”

  “I know. It’s just this is such a huge step. I’m scared.” I pulled my hoodie tightly around my body.

  “I know,” Jake said as he pulled me toward him.

  “Can we just sleep on it?” I said into his T-shirt.

  “Of course.” He kissed the top of my head and squeezed me.

  As I lay down to bed, I knew. I knew it was time to move forward, to keep pushing toward the next steps. Because that’s what being a parent means.

  Thursday, September 25

  This morning, Jake rolled over in bed and put his arm around my waist.

  “Let’s get the house,” I whispered in his ear.

  “But what about all that stuff last night?” he mumbled into my pillow.

  “Just a conversation. That house is our future. Let’s do it,” I said.

  “I’m in,” he said.

  So, we leapt out of bed as Jake dialed our Realtor and let her know we’d like to put a bid in on the house.

  I ran to Sara’s crib and announced, “Sara, you’re going to have a big, beautiful new room in a huge, amazing new house!”

  She stood up in her crib and extended her chubby arms toward me. I picked her up and held her close to my chest. I whispered in her ear that even though I go to work every day, she’s still the most important thing in the world to me and there’s nothing I won’t do for her. She’s my life. She’s my heart, and now she was going to get an awesome new house to explore.

  I released her and held her face close to mine. She shrieked and laid her head against my chest. And I knew she understood.

  Friday, September 26

  Holy shit.

  Our offer was accepted.

  We close on November 7.

  Part of me didn’t think they’d really accept it. Or at least, we’d go back and forth and have a battle of wills and I’d get to display my amazing negotiating powers and get them to throw in their plasma television or something.

  But no.

  No plasma television.

  Just a contract on an amazing, larger-than-I’d-ever-thought-we’d-be-able-to-afford house.

  House.

  We have a house.

  I must go obsessively stare at the pictures we took at the showing.

  Saturday, September 27

  Jake and I basked in the glow of the soon-to-be-our house for hours last night. We threw our hands up and wondered just what we’re going to do with all that darn space. And the bathrooms. There are two and a half bathrooms! I’ve already claimed which one is “mine,” and therefore Jake is not allowed to do anything but occasionally wash his hands in it.

  We wondered if the fridge was so big, I could fit inside of it. I excitedly discussed what flowers to plant in the backyard. Jake planned about eight parties we could hold in our basement. I dreamed about the sure-to-be-our-new-best-friends neighbors.

  We drank two bottles of wine, so by the end of the night it became, “It hasshs a front doorsh! Aweshome!”

  My headache this morning did not dull my excitement. Realizing that we now have to pack up everything in our apartment did. Although we did a massive clean-and-pitch before Sara was born, several drawers, cabinets, and closets are still stuffed with random things, like strands of broken Christmas lights all knotted together. I don’t want to even consider what to do with the wire hanger collection Jake’s amassed in the back of the closet. On second thought, maybe we can hang it as a chandelier in our new living room and call it our art deco creation or something.

  The minute I got home from work, I started pulling papers out of drawers and dishes out of the cabinets while Sara sat on a blanket in front of a Baby Einstein video. When Jake got home, all he could see was our daughter, looking totally confused while sitting on the floor, surrounded by stacks of dishes and bowls.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t pack up all of our kitchenware just yet,” he said, and bent down over the ring of dishes and picked Sara up.

  “Jake, you have no idea how much crap we have. We need to start now,” I said, and dramatically flung my arm around.

  “Yes, but we probably need things like forks between now and our close date,” he said evenly.

  “I have no problem eating with my hands,” I said from behind our entertainment center.

  “What are you doing?” he called to me.

  “I’m packing up all of our DVDs. Do you think I should just throw out our videotapes, considering you refuse to watch them due to poor picture quality?” I held up a copy of Dirty Dancing in my hand.

  “That one, you can throw out,” he said, and pointed toward the trash.

  “Very funny. You’re not helping,” I said, and set Dirty Dancing down atop the television.

  “Clare, please. We have six weeks. Let’s try and keep it together.” He smiled. “That’s why you’re so lucky to have me. I’m so good under pressure.” He looked at Sara, “Aren’t I?” he said to her.

  “Right. Like last week when we were stuck in traffic and I thought your head was going to pop off because we were five minutes late to a movie.” I waved my hands around.

  “Yeah, but I keep calm about the important stuff.” He raised his eyebrows and chuckled.

  Ignoring him, I walked over to the coffee table. I bent down and started pulling out the magazines stacked underneath it.

  “What are you doing now?” he asked.

  “I’m throwing all these magazines out.” I said, and huffed as I picked up like fifty magazines.

  “Wait—you’re throwing all your old magazines away? The ones I’ve begged you to pitch for the past year?” He held his arms out like he was waiting for a huge announcement.

  “Yes,” I said tersely as I shot him a dirty look.

  “I take it back. You’re on the right track. Let me get you a garbage bag.” He raced into the kitchen.

  “Your Sports Illustrateds are next,” I called to him.

  Tuesday, September 30

  Reveling in the new house has halted.

  Golf outing day.

  Gah.

  Wednesday, October 1

  I took today off. I tried to get out of bed and I couldn’t do it. Literally, I couldn’t do it. Not just because I’m exhausted and every muscle in my body aches, but also because I sprained my ankle yesterday. Badly sprained. So bad I was sure it was broken and went into the emergency room for an X-ray. It’s a lovely shade of midnight blue and inky black and my toes look like overstuffed blood
sausages.

  The event, by all measures, was a success. We raised $150,000 to benefit the foundation, all of the players seemed satisfied with their golf games, all of the volunteers showed up, and no one drowned in the torrential downpours that occurred an hour after the shotgun start.

  Yes, downpours.

  I met Keri at the club at 7:00 a.m. and we went straight to the golf pro’s office. This time Len was forced to look me in the eye and actually speak to me, since there was no male present. Poor Len. It seemed difficult for him to have to deal with a professional, opinionated woman. I’m sure most of the women he deals with at the club have problems like, “My cart is dirty. Find a caddy to clean it off.”

  We did a run-through of the day and made sure we had every golfer’s handicap listed for scoring purposes.

  At 8:00 a.m. sharp, Keri and I sat down at the registration table with the foundation staff. I was thrilled to see my blog reader from the first meeting there. Although it was a little early to be answering questions like, “Are you going out and getting drunk again with Julie this weekend?” She even asked about my mom and said she’s been praying for her.

  Love my readers.

  By 9:00 a.m., mayhem. Registration was filled with impatient golfers, not used to waiting for anything, standing in line to check in. It wasn’t just checking their names off on a spreadsheet. It was checking their name off, giving them a golf shirt, giving them their golf balls, asking them if they wanted to buy mulligans. (Still not sure what those are, but whatever. I thought it was a kind of beer.) They also seemed to get really annoyed when we asked them the question, “Name?” Apparently, we were all supposed to know who all two hundred of them were. Like, “Hey! You must be Bob Rosenacker! I recognized you by your receding hairline, pointy nose, liver spots on your hands, and general bad attitude! Welcome! What size golf shirt do you wear?”

  It got to the point where we tried to move everyone along as quickly as possible, so we’d ask their name, shove a golf shirt and golf balls into their hands, and point them to the locker room all at the same time.

  “Name?” I said without looking up.

  “I think you know it,” a familiar voice said.

  My head snapped up. “Oh, sorry. Things are a little nuts.”

  “That’s OK,” Greg said. He gestured to three men behind him. “I think you know these guys, too.”

  Tim Thompson, Greg’s father, and Greg’s two best friends, Ethan and Nate.

  “Hey, Clare, you look great!” Mr. Thompson said, and shook my hand.

  “Er, thanks,” I said as I self-consciously smoothed my hair behind my ears.

  They all stared at me.

  “Oh! Right! You probably want to be checked in, huh? I think the weather is going to be great today….” I babbled on for like four minutes straight while they all continued to stare at me. The foundation staff stopped what they were doing and stared at me, too, which meant the entire line was stopped, 98 percent of whom were staring at me, blabbing away like Robin Williams on speed.

  A ray of sensibility entered into my brain sometime around “… haven’t seen you guys since the kickoff party” and I somehow managed to give them their shirts and balls and allow them a brief opportunity to escape The Crazy Girl Who Is Trying to Make Flustered Conversation.

  “Was that him?” Keri hissed to me after they left.

  “Him who?” I said.

  “Ex-boyfriend him!”

  “Oh yeah.” I tried to sound casual.

  “He’s so cute!” She looked surprised.

  “Er, let’s double-check the handicaps.” I shoved a stack of paper at her and pretended to look through my purse.

  Once everyone was checked in, lunch was served. Next, Len took over and did the shotgun start and the cranky men drove their golf carts to various holes to begin play.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and began to clean up from registration until I saw Andrea, one of the foundation staff members, racing toward me with a panicked look in her eyes.

  “No one is watching the BMW!” she gasped out.

  “What?” I said.

  “The BMW! For the hole-in-one contest!”

  Crap. Someone has to be out there at all times to verify if anyone gets a hole-in-one for insurance purposes.

  “I thought one of your staff was going to do that!”

  “There was a miscommunication in the office and she’s not coming. So …” Andrea trailed off and stared at me.

  “We’ll do it,” I sighed, and signaled to Keri. Sitting in a BMW all afternoon watching crusty old men play golf was not my idea of a good time, but I really didn’t have a choice.

  We drove a golf cart out to the fourteenth hole. I only got lost twice and almost drove into the field of play like seven times, so it was a success. I parked next to the gleaming white car, opened it up, and sat inside. I ran my fingers over the smooth leather and breathed in the smell of a car I’ll never be able to afford unless I sell my ovaries. Or Sara. It took me a while to figure out how to work the radio, since every gadget in those expensive cars has to be as difficult to operate as the oxygen regulator on a NASA spaceship. Apparently, rich people prefer to use things that are twice as difficult to figure out. It must be due to their superior intelligence.

  “So, do you think the weather’s going to hold out?” Keri asked as she took her sunglasses off.

  “Definitely. I have a good feeling,” I said confidently as I fiddled with the radio.

  The golfers had played about three holes or so when the sky started to look threatening. It was sunny one minute, then bam! Inky black clouds everywhere. Within seconds, lightning started to flash on the horizon as I buried my face in the padded steering wheel. I didn’t pick my head up when I heard the unmistakable sound of a bullhorn, signaling the pause of play. I kept my head down as the golf carts whizzed past me toward the clubhouse. I was afraid one of the players would throw a Rolex at my head or something.

  “What are we going to do?” Keri shrieked.

  “Nothing,” I replied calmly.

  So, we sat in the BMW, amidst a monsoonlike downpour, complete with excessive thunder and lightning. I was content to stay in my extravagant environment until my cell phone beeped with a text message. It was from Andrea and it said they needed me back at the clubhouse to talk to Len about the dinner menu.

  I had two options: drive the BMW across the golf course, laughing maniacally while tearing up thousands of dollars’ worth of greens, or suck it up and drive the golf cart back and pray I wouldn’t get swept away in the winds, like the Wicked Witch of the West. (Or was it East? Whatever. Whichever one rode the bicycle in the air.)

  I chose the second option since the BMW was a stick shift anyway.

  We did not get swept away, but I did drive through sideways rain and some hail. Of course, the rain was all on my side of the golf cart, so Keri remained dry while I arrived at the clubhouse looking like a wet T-shirt contest contestant, due to my nude bra and white polo shirt.

  Since my clothes were soaked (and see-through and porn star–like), I was forced to change into one of the leftover golf shirts, which (of course) was a size XXL. If I had a cute belt I could have worn it as a dress, but alas, I did not. So, I spent the rest of the day in a man’s shirt large enough to house one of the people profiled on MTV’s True Life: I’m Obese and soaking-wet Capris.

  After an hour, the rain stopped and the greens dried out a little, so Len let everyone resume play. A few hours later, the golfers all stumbled back, and I do mean stumbled back, seeing as how every one of them was stinking drunk due to a very generous beverage cart attendant.

  As I was coming around a corner in the clubhouse, trying to get everything set up for the winning foursome prizes, I literally ran right into Greg.

  “Hey! Clare! How’s it goin’?” He reeked of gin.

  “Great! Just trying to get everything together!” I said, and stepped around him.

  “Your hair’s all wet,” Greg said seriously, a
s though I wasn’t aware of that detail.

  “Er, thanks for telling me,” I said quickly.

  Man, I forgot how dense he is when he drinks. I chuckled to myself as I prepared the room for the dinner and prize ceremony. I probably should’ve also made sure the floor was completely dry, because during the handing out of prizes at dinner I slipped on a puddle on the marble floor. I skidded across it with arms flailing and wound up on the floor, my ankle badly twisted underneath me.

  Although spirits were considerably lifted when one of the players, a very handsome doctor, had to wrap my ankle up for me. At least I had just gotten a pedicure.

  The club also deeply discounted the bill for the outing, after I casually mentioned an ad on television I saw for a personal injury lawyer.

  OK, so let’s recap once again:

  Lots of money raised? Check.

  Event pulled off without a hitch? Check.

  Clare publicly embarrassed, yet it turned out to be beneficial? Check.

  Thursday, October 2

  The week’s insanity continued today.

  First, a water pipe from the office above broke, sending toilet water dripping down from the ceiling in my office. Within seconds, everything on my desk was wet and smelled like sewage.

  Mule Face screamed and threw her extra-thick chocolate shake down onto the carpet of my office right when it happened, since she was standing next to my desk, recounting a story about the exact shade of purple she and Big D had painted their bathroom. So now, not only does my carpet reek of raw sewage, despite the eight hundred times my carpet’s been cleaned, but I also have a huge brown stain in the center of my office. I’m sure, with the stain coupled with the smell, clients who come in are drawing some pretty interesting conclusions.

  Then, the stationer for Logan’s party sent over an invitation proof for the event. It was, once again, incorrect. The first time, the date was wrong. The second time, Logan’s name was spelled “Legon,” like a folkloric dragon. The third time, the font was too small to read. And this time, they left off the RSVP line. So, I trekked over to the shop itself, sat down in front of the owner, and meticulously went through every change. I insisted the proof be corrected while I waited, to ensure they wouldn’t send me another proof with the invitation written in Chinese or something. It’s even become a running joke in the office, but unfortunately, Elise insisted on using this stationer since she knows the owner of the shop. You’d think it would mean we’d get even just a sliver of customer service. But no, the designer told me I’m too picky and I’m really holding up production with all of my changes.