To: Jenny M.
From: Megan W.
Subject: RE: RE: Playdate
Hi Jenny,
Our availability is firm at 25 minutes to ensure the kids stay on schedule. I’m sure you understand.
Best,
Megan
11
Amy
I’m dreading what I’ll say to the kids about Mike being gone. I even Googled “how to tell your kids that you think you might get a divorce because their dumb dad was having an affair with someone on the Internet?” I’ve practiced a very fair speech, where I assure them both that Mike and I will always be on their side, in their corner . . . we just won’t be living together anymore. I am ready, when the right moment arrives, but the sad truth is that the three of us hardly notice Mike is gone. Turns out Mike’s absence was the same as his presence. I took the kids to school. I went to work. I picked them up. I drove Jane to her first soccer practice, and to Mandarin classes.
In the meantime, I also solved everyone’s problems at work. It was like the Ineptitude Awards, and everyone at the office was vying for first place. Dale accidentally forgot to pay last quarter’s commission to our sales team, and I am the one who issued the apology and the checks. Tessa accidentally forwarded an email complaining about a client to the client, and I’m the one who made the phone call apologizing for her. Our Ops team realized they hadn’t accounted for the cost of storage when calculating the MSRP for our cold brew product, and I’m the one who made the red numbers turn black again.
In other words, nothing has changed. If anything, things are a little smoother, because I’m not tripping over Mike’s giant shoes, which he used to take off directly in front of the front door, as though there wasn’t a front hall closet with a shoe organizer right there next to where he left his giant shoes for the rest of us to trip over. I’m not rinsing his toothpaste crust out of the sink or picking his sopping wet towels off the bathroom floor. I’m not wondering if he’ll finally be able to step in to help with pickups or drop-offs. Mike is less of an estranged husband and more like a variable I’d removed from my daily operations.
“WHERE’S DAD AGAIN?” DYLAN ASKS THE THIRD NIGHT MIKE is gone. “Dallas or something?”
This is the moment. The moment for me to jump into my speech, to tell the kids the truth about their parents’ marriage and to quell any fears before they can take root and turn them into adults who follow jam bands on tour. I swear I was about to tell them, but Roscoe interrupts us by walking directly into the kitchen cupboards. Like, right smack into them. Now, he’s a dumb dog, but not that dumb. Our little buddy looks confused, and a little unsteady on his feet. Bam! He walks into the cupboards again.
“Is he . . . drunk?” Jane asks, and I instinctively check his water dish for beer, which Mike has been known to share with him on occasion. Nope—just water.
“Roscoe, buddy? You okay?” I ask him, because I am a person who talks to my dog like he might be a person.
Roscoe staggers a bit, and then falls.
ROSCOE IS OUR FIRST BABY. HE WAS MIKE’S FRAT DOG, A weird little mutt who wandered up to the front door of their frat house one day and never left. He was the chapter’s unofficial mascot (hence the beer), but there was never a question that when Mike graduated, Roscoe was going with him. But Roscoe’s college career was cut short when I got knocked up, and Roscoe moved from the frat house into the tiny apartment that Mike and I shared. He spent my pregnancy curled up protectively beside me, resting his head on my belly.
Roscoe and Dylan were best buddies right from the start. All the grainy digital photos we have of Baby Dylan, taken with our state-of-the-art three-megapixel camera, feature Roscoe’s scraggly mug. Roscoe cried if Dylan cried, which was cute until it was annoying. Roscoe became a living vacuum cleaner, sucking up every Cheerio, raisin, or teething cracker Dylan dropped. When Dylan didn’t like dinner, he’d tip his entire plate toward the ground, raining smooshed peas and chicken on a very happy Roscoe. Roscoe went from Mike’s dog to our dog to Dylan’s dog. But not just a dog, because Roscoe isn’t just a pet, he’s a pillar of this family. The kids and I would be fine without Mike. But without Roscoe? Hell no.
JANE AND DYLAN STAY SHOCKINGLY CALM WHILE I carry Roscoe to the car, wrapped up in his favorite blanket. Dylan even opens the door for me so I can put our little buddy in the front seat. “I love you, Roscoe,” he whispers, fastening his old bike helmet under Roscoe’s chin. It’s weird and sweet and maybe the only thing that keeps me from bursting into hysterical tears.
Roscoe looks so small and scared, even with a helmet on. Jane and Dylan wave from the porch, and I give them a weak thumbs-up and then dash off a quick text to Dale and Tessa.
Family Emergency
Will take the team call from my car
I never text and drive, but I sometimes happen to see the text messages I’m receiving while I’m driving if the phone is already screen up and unlocked and the kids aren’t in the car and I’m already running late for everything. Okay? I admit it. I looked at my phone, and I really wish I hadn’t.
We’re your family, too, Dale replied, and my shoulders shot up to my ears. As if he’d anticipated my physical reaction to his text, he quickly sent an addendum.
Hope all is okay, tho. U know I love family. A photo followed, of his godawful forearm tattoo, an illegible script that he insisted said FAMILY, but looked more like a series of loops created by someone who had never been taught to read or write cursive.
Oh no! Tessa replied. Xoxoxoxxo
The thing about team meetings is that they are completely useless. Anything that requires the presence of more than four people and lasts more than thirty minutes is guaranteed to be a waste of everyone’s time. Once, I calculated that these weekly meetings cost us about ten thousand dollars in productivity. When I brought this to Dale’s attention, he rolled his eyes, “Oh my God, Amy. That’s such an old-school way of thinking. You can’t put a price on connection.” Maybe not, but there is no connection to these meetings, unless you count everyone on their laptops iMessaging one another about their weekends or commenting on Dale’s collection of outdated ironic T-shirts. Still, I dial in to the weekly call, Roscoe whimpering next to me. Nobody notices when I dial in because nobody is ever listening at these meetings. I hear bits and pieces of conversation: someone is still hungover, someone else is still wearing the clothes from yesterday. Someone is finally watching Game of Thrones and doesn’t get what all the hype was about. That’s because, someone else pointed out, it was way overhyped. An argument breaks out, and then, apparently, Dale enters.
“Hey, everyone!” I shout. No reply.
“So,” Dale starts, “you’ll notice that Amy isn’t here today. I know, I know, it’s disappointing.”
“I’m actually HERE. I’m dialed in. I’m on my way to the vet’s off—”
“Amy’s got her reasons, I’m sure, but I just want to make sure that everyone else here at the CoCo is really here, that we’re all here to make the world a better place.”
I give up, not even trying to fill the awkward silence that has apparently filled the room. There are murmurs of agreement from around the table.
“So, that’s my update. Who’s next?”
I swear I can hear Dale’s stupid smile. This is the first semi-work-related thing he’d contributed to a meeting in ages. The past few weeks, his updates have been about renovations to his pool, or his spot on the waitlist for a solar-powered jetpack he had backed on Kickstarter.
I mute the phone while I park the car and scoop Roscoe up from the front seat. I keep it on mute while I explain the situation to the vet tech, while the vet tech takes Roscoe into another room, and while I sit in the waiting room, uh, waiting. One by one, I hear more updates that aren’t actual updates. There are a lot of words being used, but nothing being said. I hear mumbling about creating alchemy and finding equilibrium, about identifying pain points, but nothing that even remotely corresponds to the meeting agenda, which I write and distr
ibute every week.
I unmute my phone, because I actually do have updates. And I need updates. And then I get one. My phone buzzes, and like the Pavlovian dog I am, I look down.
To: Amy Mitchell
From: Gwendolyn James
Subject: Everything Okay?
Hi Amy,
Just checking in to make sure that everything is okay on your end. You’ve been noticeably absent from the Mom Squad this year, and we’re all missing your contributions! As a mompreneur, I know the challenges that come with trying to balance the professional obligations with your personal calling as a wife and mother, and I want you to know that I’m here for you.
One of my personal mottos is that when life gives you too much to handle, it’s best to open your arms even wider and say, “More, please!” By simply stating that you are capable of handling more, you will be able to handle more. The abundance mind-set will truly transform your ability to manage your time and make you a happier, healthier mother to your children.
With that in mind, I’ll see you at tonight’s meeting. The start time is promptly at 5, and the program should last no longer than 3.5 hours, accounting for social time and questions and answers. Please arrange for childcare for Dylan and Jane. I know that Mike is staying at the extended stay out by the airport right now—staycation?—but my nanny has plenty of referrals if you need any help in the interim.
All the best,
Gwendolyn James
@GwendolynJamesStyle
Download my eBook, Rich Mom, Loser Mom, here!
The sound that emerges from my body is halfway between a growl and a scream.
“Did anyone hear that?” I hear Dale ask.
The adrenaline coursing through my veins is making my hands shake. I can actually feel my heart beating. Is this what dying feels like? Is this what Roscoe feels like? Oh my God, Roscoe. I hang up the phone, suddenly very aware of my surroundings, which include a very concerned-looking vet tech standing in the doorway of the waiting room.
“Ma’am?” she says in the voice she probably uses for dogs before she euthanizes them. “Is everything okay?”
I mean to say yes, but sometimes, when I’m really upset, I can’t tell where my thoughts end and my voice starts. Was I really telling the woman who castrates dogs for a living that my husband has left me and my boss hates me and the moms at school all know that I’m a loser and that this dog is the last thing holding me together? Yes, I am. Am I really letting her take me by the hand and lead me back into an examination room so I won’t disturb the other patrons, who are starting to look concerned? Yes, absolutely. This angel of a human hands me a tiny paper cup of water and rests her hand on my shoulder.
“Okay.” She smiles. “The doctor will be with you in a moment.” Before I can panic about what the doctor will tell me, there’s a light knock on the door and the vet enters, holding Roscoe like the sweet little baby he is. I brace myself for the diagnosis. I take in Roscoe’s big, dumb eyes and his unbelievable eyelashes. I briefly wonder if it would be weird to have him taxidermied (yes).
Roscoe looks at me like he has already been briefed on the situation. His eyes are sadder than usual, which means it’s probably cancer. And this is why people buy health insurance for their pets, because when the doctor tells you that your dog needs chemotherapy and radiation you’re not going to say no, you’re going to hand over your credit card and spend many thousands of dollars to keep that little fur person alive as long as possible.
Dr. Omar takes a deep breath. “It’s vertigo,” she says, setting Roscoe on the exam table. Roscoe tips over on his side, like he’s been blown over by a stiff wind. I scream like I’ve just found my favorite brand of frozen lunches on supersale at Target. And then I start crying, like they’re out of my favorite recipe and I’m on my period.
“Roscoe!” I kiss him on the lips, which I know is disgusting given what I’ve seen him do with that mouth. “You have vertigo! I’m so happy you’re not dying! I’m so happy you don’t have cancer!” I pick him up in my arms and sway back and forth.
“I’m prescribing him some sedatives to take the edge off, but it should pass. It’s just something that happens in older dogs. Here’s a sample to get him through until you can fill his prescription.”
Dr. Omar is halfway out the door when she adds, “It’s the same sedatives doctors prescribe to people having extreme anxiety . . . if that information is useful to you.”
12
Carla
I’ve been purposefully avoiding any and all mom-related school activities since Jaxon started kindergarten and the teacher was like, “Make sure you each sign up to be a classroom volunteer at least three times a month!” All the other moms were ready to cut each other to get to the sign-up sheet and I thought, Isn’t that your job? How the shit should I know how to get twenty-six kids to pay attention to reading? I can’t even get one giant kid to sit still while I get my nails done. My volunteer work is spending every other week just keeping this kid from eating the nickels he finds on the floor of the car. Ask his Dad to volunteer his time. He’s got almost two months of sobriety and a court order to complete three hundred hours of community service before he can get his license reinstated.
I’d been so excited for Jaxon to start kindergarten, especially at McKinley. The moms at the spa were always talking about how desperate they were to get in, how competitive the lottery system was for open enrollment, and how impossible it was to find a house in the district these days. These moms were obsessed with McKinley and all the ways it was going to benefit their children. There was a nutritionist on staff supervising the hot lunch program, a music therapist there to help the kids express themselves through song. Several language immersion programs, so that your kid could learn Mandarin or Spanish or for some reason, German? Most of it sounded boring as hell to me, and I know this sounds like the cheesy kind of thing you only hear on TV, but anytime I looked at Jaxon’s dirty little face I just wanted him to have every opportunity in the world, even if they were opportunities I didn’t understand. But there was no way he’d get them. McKinley was a school for rich kids who had rich parents like the ones whose crotches I was always waxing. Jaxon would go . . . I didn’t know where.
One day, when Jaxon was still a toddler, spending his days with our elderly neighbor, Janine, I’d gone to the library to research schools. The first step, the local website told me, was to identify our school district. The computer screen featured a map of our area, cut into what looked like jagged, angular puzzle pieces in different colors. The McKinley district was the smallest, a tiny island of purple smack in the middle of the map. And right there, right on the edge of that purple area? Was our neighbor Janine’s house.
Just a measly ten yards south was our house, on the edge of the Colton district. I’d never heard of it, but a quick search showed me that it had the worst school in the state. Their graduates go on to become guys who wear sunglasses on the backs of their heads, telemarketers, and disc golfers. And those are the lucky ones. Jaxon was screwed.
So when I went to pick up Jaxon, I cut a deal with Janine. I would put her address on all my school paperwork, and when school mail would arrive at her house, she would dish it to me. In exchange, I gave her free pedicures. That old lady has some nasty feet. But it was worth it.
Jaxon was in. I was in.
THAT WAS KINDERGARTEN, WHEN ALL THE COMMUNICATION was done in colorful flyers that Jaxon just jammed into the bottom of his backpack. I’d usually find them after they’d congealed into a pulp with spilled water, loose raisins, and other unidentifiable snack residue. Apparently Jaxon wasn’t the only kid who made an unreliable mailman, because the teacher eventually wised up and decided that the best course of action was to hand those flyers to parents personally at drop-off or pickup. She’d look us dead in the eye and narrate the entire moment, too, just so we couldn’t pretend we hadn’t known about the Harvest Hootenanny or the Book Bonanza. “Hi, Ms. Dunkler, here’s a flyer for next month’s volunteer
opportunities,” she’d say, and I’d promise to look it over when I got home and had a better sense of my schedule. Wouldn’t you know? I was booked every day of the next month with LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE.
Thank God for first grade, when Gwendolyn strong-armed the entire teaching staff into communicating only via email. She saved thousands of trees and saved me from dying of boredom at a science museum field trip with a bunch of nerds. Ever since then, my email address has been my shield: taking one for the Dunkler team day after day. “Sorry!” I can say whenever a mom asks if I’m going to whatever fucking carnival they’re planning to celebrate something that isn’t a holiday. “Musta missed that email!” It’s called plausible deniability. You can’t prove that I didn’t not get that email.
KIDS ARE DUMB ENOUGH NOT TO NOTICE THE DIFFERENCES between them right away. Kids don’t know that their parents’ car costs what I make in a year, or that Jaxon’s backpack came from the thrift store. To them, class is a place you learn, not a pecking order that determines your worth and your path in life. So when Jaxon was in at McKinley, he was in. He was huge and athletic, and when you’re a kid, that’s kinda all you need to be popular. He made every team and got invited to every birthday party. But I was not in. I’d walked into that first parent-teacher conference ready to parent the fuck out of it. But Mrs. Fagnani—with her boring jewelry and her prim and proper sweater set—had taken one look at me and written me off. She had so many questions: Was I married to Jaxon’s dad? Did Jaxon have a dad? Where did we live? And were we sure it was in district? I’d gotten the message loud and clear. And I’d ignored it.
I never went to another parent-teacher conference. I never answered another letter or email from the Mom Squad, the administration, or anything else related to this school. Jaxon was in. I didn’t need to be.
SEVEN YEARS LATER, I’M TROLLING THE HALLWAYS OF McKINLEY trying to run into Jaxon’s teacher. From everything I’ve heard about Mr. Nolan, he’s single and at least not not trying to mingle. Bam! I didn’t even see her there when I took that corner, poor kid. Except she’s not a kid. Though she is dressed like a large kindergartner.
Bad Moms Page 7
