Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  “I want to see if this thing is actually as awesome as you say,” I said to him.

  “Trust me, it is,” he said confidently. He reached for the door handle and gave it a good swift yank.

  Nothing. It was frozen.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered.

  He tried again. Nothing.

  “Motherfucker,” he said under his breath. He reached for the handle again and violently jerked it.

  In one swift, clean move, the handle ripped off the side of the car into his hand. He stood there, stunned, holding his car door handle. I sat silently and watched him walk around the other side of the car, open the passenger door, and throw the handle into the backseat. He leaned over and grabbed the Ice Scraper to Which All Others Cannot Compare. He shrugged at me as he walked up to the windshield. He smiled and pointed to the ice scraper.

  I flashed him a thumbs-up sign.

  He tugged at one of the windshield wipers, trying to lift it up to scrape underneath it. But it was frozen, too. He wiggled it a little, trying to dislodge it from the glass, and guess what? Yep. It came off in his hand.

  He threw it down on the driveway and roared.

  So, let’s recap:

  Driver’s side handle: in the backseat.

  Windshield wiper: on the driveway.

  The climax of the entire incident was when he put the scraper to the car window and the entire scraper immediately dissolved and disintegrated into about twelve pieces.

  His back was to me when the scraper met its demise. He didn’t even turn around as he walked back into the house, defeated and humiliated.

  By this time, my car was fully warmed up, so I turned my windshield wipers on and the ice and snow fell right off my car.

  I called him from my cell phone and told him about my great ice-scraping technique, which involved starting my vehicle.

  He hung up on me.

  Sara and I laughed as I drove her to day-care.

  Tuesday, December 23

  Jake did not find it funny when I read him several of the comments on my blog regarding the Great Ice Scraper Calamity.

  He also did not find it funny when the return Nazis at Target interrogated him and asked him to provide a full reenactment of the incident before they would refund his $4.99. They also told him he’s only allowed to return like three things per calendar year, so the scraper coupled with the T-shirt and socks he returned three months ago put him at his limit. And with the holiday season coming up, did he really want to use his last chance on a $4.99 ice scraper?

  Apparently, he got kind of mad and yelled something about the clerks being in the Gestapo. Whatever.

  He may not think any of it is funny, but I still can’t stop laughing. It makes all of the stress of Christmas completely manageable.

  Not to mention, as I drove home from work amidst the pre-Christmas flurries, an idea struck me. One that might allow me to intermix my professional strengths with my personal goals. An idea that’s a beautiful shade of gray.

  I’m not ready to completely explore it yet, as I still need to allow it percolate for a while, so I’ll just call it my Fabulous New Idea That Shall Not Be Named for Fear of Jinxing It.

  Thursday, December 25

  The holiday hangover has officially begun.

  The past two days, Sara received enough crap to fill Paris Hilton’s closet. Including a toy that is, once again, possessed. It randomly plays music, lights up, and buzzes without anyone pressing a button. Jake yelled, “The power of Christ compels you!” at it a few times and it seemed to stop. Marianne gave her one of those dolls who shit their pants, despite Sara being way too young for dolls and still shitting her own pants. The best part is the doll also laughs and farts. I’m not kidding. While the doll laughs, she also makes fart noises. So Jake and I, being very mature and not at all childish, made the stupid thing fart until the motor wore out.

  Not that a trip to my parents’ house was much better. When we walked into my parents’ house on Christmas Eve, my nasal passages were immediately attacked with the stench of glögg. Glögg is some kind of horrible spiced wine my parents’ neighbors from Sweden give them every year for Christmas. Since my dad is the only one who drinks it and the neighbors give them like five gallons every year, my parents have a small arsenal of horrible-tasting holiday wine in their basement.

  Anyway, glögg is meant to be served warm, so my dad pours some into a saucepan and lets it simmer on the stove. Which fills the entire house with the smell of brandy and rotting fruit. Not to mention I stole some when I was in high school (during the days when my friends and I would drink just about anything to get drunk) and my friends and I drank it at a sleepover. Well, not surprisingly, we all got sick and puked for hours straight. Mulled wine mixed with Domino’s pizza does not a good combination make. One sniff of warm glögg and I’m brought right back to my friend’s basement, throwing up in her sink and getting yelled at because I’m puking too loud.

  After I finished gagging, my dad and I had our usual conversation about our preference for a tree made out of green pipe cleaners while my mom and Jake defended their need for a real tree.

  Mark and Casey entertained us with stories about a road trip they took to her parents’ house a few weeks back. Apparently, her parents live downstate. Which means she and Mark had to travel through some pretty hillbilly areas to get there. Mark begged to stop at the live-action Civil War reenactment, but they were running late. He said he really wanted to go since, at this show, the South wins. I think they also said they pulled off an exit and saw a very tall person in a clown costume, pushing a midget in a wheelchair.

  Mark also whispered to me that he had picked out some jewelry and winked at me. My mouth dropped open and he quickly turned back into Mark, my brother, and punched me in the arm and said, “Don’t be a loser.”

  The gift giving was also a success. Everyone loved their gifts. My parents gushed over our present of converting all our old home movies into DVDs, Sam said a quick “thanks” for the earrings, and Mark feigned surprise when he opened his rugby shirt.

  “How did you know?” he said.

  “Maybe because you e-mailed everyone your Christmas list, in PowerPoint presentation form, complete with animation,” I said.

  Jake also loved his gift. I made him a montage video of Sara’s first year set to music. It included pictures from right after she was born to video of her walking now. We both got a little misty-eyed as we watched it until I heard a crash, turned around, and saw Sara pulling a Pottery Barn vase off an end table.

  There’s very little time for sentiment when there’s a toddler around.

  And my own little ideas are still germinating, as a Christmas gift to myself.

  Saturday, December 27

  There’s also very little time for sobriety when Julie’s around. She finally relented and Jake and I met her and Trevor out for a drink last night.

  Or it was supposed to be “a drink.” It would up being about fifty.

  It started off with some sushi and sake. And then more sake. And then some tequila.

  And that’s how we wound up at a karaoke bar.

  Jake and Trevor did a duet to “Soul Man,” complete with sunglasses. Jake may or may not have convinced me to join him onstage for a stirring rendition of “O.P.P.” In the middle of which he realized his jackassery and left me onstage to rap all by myself.

  I also may or may not have eaten a gyro sometime around midnight.

  Jake, thankfully, had slightly more sense than I did. Because at one point, Julie actually convinced me that we should call up Matt and tell him how much we hate him. Jake apparently distracted us by showing us how to take pictures with his cell phone. For which I am so, so grateful. Because I have a slight suspicion that calling up Matt when drinking would fall into the Things That Make Clare Trashy category. Not to mention Reese would probably strangle us to death with one of her Frette hand towels.

  Anyway, the bottom line: Trevor’s fantastic.

 
Tuesday, December 30

  Today was a perfect day.

  As I drove home from work yesterday, with Sara in the back snoozing away, a light dusting of snow began to fall. The meteorologists on just about every news channel predicted a snowstorm. I didn’t hold my breath, since they usually say that at least four times each year and we wind up with an inch. I drove home, the radio muted, the only sound Sara’s light snoring. I twisted my car through the already-slushy streets and took in the slowly forming Winter Wonderland. Kids, still on school break, began to run outside and throw themselves down into the snow, furiously forming snow angels. Evergreen bushes, decorated with strands of white lights, donned tufts of snow, looking like radioactive green cupcakes with glowing sprinkles.

  And, sure enough, every driver in the Chicagoland area drove like either (a) They had never seen this white stuff: Apparently it’s called snow? Whatever it is, I better not hit my accelerator at all, or (b) Snow! Whee! Let’s see if I can get my Toyota Camry to turn this corner on two wheels!

  I wanted to attach a speaker atop my car and drive through the streets screaming, Two inches! Two! I guarantee that’s how much snow we’ll actually get.

  But, by about eight o’clock, the snow started falling in sheets and Jake and I could barely see out the front door.

  By the time Sara went to bed, snow was piled up against our back door.

  By the time Jake and I went to bed, our cars had a good foot of snow atop them. We snuggled into bed, each not daring to ask if the other thought we could stay home from work the next day. Like kids in grade school, we didn’t want to jinx it.

  So, when I woke up at four this morning, I dared to peek out our bedroom window. I silently pumped my fist as I saw the snow still furiously coming down. I jumped back into bed and rubbed my feet together before drifting off.

  Two feet of snow—that’s how much fell by the time we woke up this morning.

  The city restricted all travel to only emergency vehicles on the roads, to allow the snowplows to get through. Victory!

  Jake and I curled up on the couch with Sara and watched Christmas movies, drank cider, and napped while Sara did. It was glorious. The three of us, a couch, and three fuzzy blankets made the best family day ever.

  And I realized how amazing it was as it happened. Too many times in my life, I’ve been only able to appreciate moments like these after they’re long gone. But this was one time, as I settled down in our worn couch, Sara in between Jake and me, plush blanket pulled around us, that I was able to see the picture as it was being painted. I peeked under the white cover before the masterpiece was finished. And as I munched on leftover Christmas cookies and sipped eggnog, I felt the comfort of enjoying the day as it happened, not from the distorted lens of the future or the long distance of the past.

  The only problem was I hadn’t been to the grocery store yet, so we were forced to eat ramen noodles like college students, but we didn’t mind.

  I caught up on all my daytime television—soap operas, horrible talk shows titled Please Help Me Find My Baby Daddy, and canceled sitcoms like Step by Step.

  I also spent a gluttonous time watching the Food Network, swearing I would make the shitake mushroom and spinach ragout. One thing that bothered me was how every cook, at the end of their show, tastes their own food and is like “OH GOD! YUM! IT’S SO GOOD!”

  Like they’re going to say anything else.

  I want to see a show sometime when one of the chefs takes a bite of their own food and quickly spits it out and says, Ew! Gross! I really screwed this one up!

  The upside is that the day off really gave me a chance to think about my Non-Jinxed Idea. After a bit of mental marinating, it’s starting to come into focus and I think I’ll be ready soon to start making it a reality.

  Thursday, January 1

  Last night was New Year’s Eve.

  I was so depressed last year when I couldn’t go out and party like everyone else on New Year’s Eve. I swore I’d go out the following year and have a killer time, to make up for taking a year off. This year, I’m so over it.

  New Year’s Eve is so overrated. Either you spend it at a bar, with a jillion other people whom you don’t know, overpay for drinks, and then get annoyed with everyone or you spend it at someone’s house, watching Ryan Seacrest and falling asleep. I chose the second option.

  I told Jake to go out with the boys and have a great time and invited Reese and her kids over to spend the night.

  We went to dinner at 4:00 p.m., since Brendan goes to bed now around 7:00 p.m. We hung out with the senior citizens and ate mozzarella sticks before going home.

  After the kids were in bed, Reese and I settled in to watch a fantastic double feature of Teen Wolf and Teen Wolf Too.

  While I swapped out Teen Wolf for its sequel, I asked her, “So, how’s everything?”

  “Good. I mean, hard. But good.” She fell silent as she studied the stitching on the arm of the couch. “I filed for divorce this week,” she said quietly.

  “Really? Oh, honey. I’m so sorry, I mean, it’s the best thing, but I’m so sorry it didn’t work out,” I said, and placed my hand over hers.

  She nodded and looked at me. Her chin quivered a little, but she cleared her throat and twisted her hair into a ponytail.

  “How’s Julie? I haven’t talked to her in a while,” she said.

  “Er, great!” I said quickly as I concentrated really hard on zipping up my sweatshirt.

  “Clare?” Reese said as she dropped her arms down and folded them across her chest.

  “What?” I said as I played with my sweatshirt’s zipper.

  “Clare?” she said again.

  I sighed and looked at her. “Julie’s doing great. She’s dating someone new. Trevor. She finally …” I paused and softened my eyes. “Found someone.”

  Reese nodded and smiled, despite a brief moment of furrowing her brows. “That’s great. I’m so happy for her.”

  I nodded, thinking how it wasn’t supposed to be like this at all.

  We were all supposed to be happy. At the same time. Not piecemeal, not netting zero.

  “Reese, I just want to make sure you know that I’m so proud of you and that you’ve given me the courage to find out what I want, even if it’s different from according to plan. Things didn’t go business as usual for me”—I pointed toward Sara’s room, and Reese smiled—“but I think everything will turn out fantastic. And I know it will for you, too.” I reached forward and grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I know it.” I raised our hands in a pseudo–victory pact. “To the scary-but-awesome future ahead!”

  I thought she would well up thanks to my Oscar-worthy speech, but instead she appeared to be staring over my shoulder. “Clare?” she said.

  “What?”

  She pointed behind me. “I think a large woman is staring at us.”

  “Wha?” I whipped my head around and saw Psycho Bitch, wearing a Happy New Year’s headband, glaring at us from the sidewalk as she walked down the street. “Oh.” I waved my hand around. “Her. She’s crazy. It’s fine. I mean, she might throw dog poop on my door or threaten us for stealing her baked goods, but she’s harmless. Now let’s get back to some werewolf lovin’,” I said.

  Wednesday, January 7

  I posted a video of Sara laughing on my blog today. It’s footage of Jake holding her above his head, like an airplane, while she giggles hysterically. Everyone seemed to like it and proclaimed her the cutest laugher ever.

  It was really just a ploy, since I can’t post what I was supposed to post today. Which are professional pictures of Sara. Or should I say “professional” pictures.

  A while back, one of my readers e-mailed me and said that she’s trying to get her fledging freelance photography business off the ground. And she’d love to shoot Sara and blow up a bunch of the pictures for free, as long as I’d post a couple pictures on my blog.

  Normally, I decline these requests, but she seemed really nice, and she’s a mom, too,
and she totally caught me during my “I Love the World Because It’s Christmas” phase. So, I agreed.

  And the photo shoot looked normal enough. Until she e-mailed me the pictures five minutes ago, with a reminder to post them. Which leads me to my conundrum.

  She Photoshopped half of the pictures. She added a bunch of effects, several of which make it appear as though my child is wrapped in tulle or cellophane. Or possibly in a body bag of some sort.

  A few more make it appear as though she’s a constellation. I’m not kidding. It’s my daughter, standing there, on a giant background of stars. Next to the Big Dipper.

  It’s like Baby’s First Acid Trip. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

  I promised to recommend her, so I’ll just have to post one of the normal photos. But I cringe thinking of the hate e-mails I’m going to get when one of my readers uses her and she Photoshops the kid’s head into a collage of Easter eggs.

  At least I can hope that, thanks to the distraction of toddler videos and photography, no one will ask about The Day Coming Up of Which I Am in Great Denial, a.k.a. tomorrow.

  Sara’s first birthday. I’ve planned the entire party for Saturday. I’ve cleaned my house, bought presents, gift bags, and a cake. But I’ve done it all while pretending it’s someone else’s child who’s turning a year old.

  Turning a year old means turning into a kid. Turning a year old means no more baby.

  So, like a woman about to turn forty, Sara’s just not going to age. I’m going to tell everyone she’s eleven months old. For the next few years.

  Thursday, January 8

  I have a one-year-old.

  When people ask me how old my daughter is, I can no longer say a number followed by the word “months.” I will have to say a number that is followed by the word “year.”

  She’s practically a teenager already. She’ll be swapping clothes with Sam and flatironing her hair tomorrow.