My mom has always loved Mike. He’s hard not to love, especially if you’re an older woman. He makes intense eye contact with those sparkling eyes of his, he laughs at all the right points in a story, and he is quick with compliments. I’d warned Mike right before our Meet the Family and Tell Them We’re Pregnant dinner that my mom could be tough and would probably hate him seeing as how he’d knocked up her high-achieving daughter. But no, no such thing. My mom was full-on obsessed with Mike, right away.
She’d known Mike for about two hours before she found out she was going to be a grandmother, and she’d already started calling him Mikey, even though she’d told me as a child that nicknames were “low class.” When I finally choked out the words “I’m pregnant,” she had a moment of shock before she broke out into a wide smile.
“Well,” she said, “what a blessing!” She’d said this to Mike, by the way, even though I was the one crying and carrying her first grandchild underneath an oversize college sweatshirt. From then on, Mike was her favorite kid. He started calling her Ruthie, and she allowed it. The two of them always ended up picking each other for my family’s Secret Santa gift exchange. They had to be partners whenever we played card games. In a lot of ways, they were more compatible than Mike and I ever were. Gross, no, I’m not suggesting that my mom should hook up with Mike. Just that she’d ended up with a guy so meek and deferential that my dad was commonly referred to as Ruth’s Husband.
ME: Mom, it’s a divorce. Not a death.
ME: Mikey will still be in your life, don’t worry.
MOM: Call me! Your father is very upset!
My dad, I knew, was not upset. My dad was never upset. Not when my mom traded in his car for a minivan without asking him. Not when my mom had his home office turned into a crafting studio while he was on a work trip. Not even when my mom paid three thousand dollars for some fancy cat even though my dad is allergic. In response to his protests about Jenny (yes, she named her cat Jenny), she bought him an EpiPen.
My phone rings again—Jesus, Mom!—and I put it on airplane mode. Not now, Ruthie.
YOU KNOW WHY COCO HAS A GREAT RATING ON EVERY WORKPLACE ratings website you can find? Because it’s fun to work here! Or, it has been fun for everyone else. Also, because at one point Dale was paying our interns twenty-five dollars an hour to create fake profiles and write good reviews for the company.
Per my actual work contract, I decided to show up at the office today for some facetime of the non-Apple variety.
“Hey, bitch!” Tessa screams when I walk into my office. She is at my desk, with a paper face mask on, listening to a guided meditation that is urging her to offer loving kindness to a difficult person in her life. She peels off her face mask and throws it toward the garbage can, missing by at least two feet. “Swish!” she cries, holding her hands up in the touchdown formation. I pick up the soggy, face-shaped piece of paper.
“Do you want one?” Tessa asks, handing me a foil packet covered in Korean writing. “They’re . . . brightening? Or tightening? I don’t know, I don’t read Chinese.”
I do want to do a brightening or tightening face mask, actually. Tessa restarts her meditation, and the two of us practice noticing our breath and ignoring everyone who walks into my office.
After my facial, I join the frat pack downstairs for a game of ping-pong. It turns out, the fast-twitch muscles I thought I’d lost are still here and still ready to dominate. “Damn, Mom!” Brett (or Brendan? Maybe Brian?) shouts, ducking as I send yet another ping-pong ball straight for his face. “Where did these skills come from?”
“Game,” I declare, slamming my paddle down in victory. “And quit calling me Mom.”
Tessa had warned me that Dale was “really peeved” about the hotel project. I could tell he had something up his ass, because he spent the entire day in his office, pretending he didn’t know I was there. The problem is, all our offices are made of glass, and I could see him up there all day, struggling to look as if he wasn’t looking at me. He was pretending to be looking at his computer all day, which is hilarious because he can’t look at anything for more than thirty seconds.
“Deep concentration is over,” he’d told me one day, when I’d sent him a one-page memo updating him on our sales projections for the coming year. “I need everything in bite-size pieces of information.” I’d pointed out that the memo had fewer than three hundred words in it and was truly just a series of bullets, but he’d balked. “It’s over!” he’d shouted. “It’s all about skimming now.” In the end, Tessa had ended up texting him all the information, bullet by bullet. “Brilliant!” he’d shouted each time he received a message. “This is perfect, Tessa!”
I’d thought about that moment this morning, when Dylan was preparing his breakfast. He’d poured the milk in before the cereal and was frustrated that the results of his breakfast attempt were all over the kitchen floor.
“I can’t believe this shit,” he’d said, whining. “I have to cook my own breakfast every morning?” He stepped over his mess, leaving it for me to clean up, and dumped the rest of his perfectly edible if not perfectly executed breakfast in the sink, leaving it for me to put away.
In the past, I would have grabbed a paper towel, run the garbage disposal, and put the bowl in the dishwasher. But today, no. Because boys like Dylan grow up to be men like Dale and Mike: men who believe that the world owes them something, because they’ve been coddled by their well-meaning but dumbass parents too long. Parents like me and Mike, who let a perfectly capable kid skate by on the excuse that he was a “slow learner” even though the kid can build an entire Minecraft world that I don’t even understand. Parents who tried to protect their kid from the sting of imperfection and ended up the kind of people who do their kids’ science projects? Last year—and I’ll deny it if I’m ever asked directly about this by any member of the McKinley administration—I got a blue ribbon for Dylan’s science project. It ended up going to the State Fair, sitting in a glass display case next to science projects by actual children. And I wasn’t embarrassed, I was proud!
THIS IS HOW IT STARTS: WE LOVE OUR KIDS SO MUCH THAT WE keep helping but forget that they need to be learning. We pick up their clothes and pack their lunches and tie their shoes and erase the wrong answers on their math worksheets . . . and we keep doing that, because we love them and honestly because it’s faster to do it ourselves and do it right than to teach them and watch them fold a T-shirt incorrectly. And then, without looking, we’ve created a kid who is given everything, and believes he’s earned it and owed it. The next thing you know, you’ve created another entitled white dude who thinks he’s awesome for no reason. And he becomes some vaguely financial guy like Mike, whose biggest point of pride is some dumb muscle car he didn’t even restore himself, but lets people believe he rebuilt. Or some dumbass like Dale with an illegible tattoo on his forearm and a startup that gets more funding than nonprofits dedicated to feeding starving kids. Worst-case scenario, they start a friggin’ rap career on SoundCloud and drag all their girlfriends to every awful show.
No. Not this white boy, at least.
“Dylan,” I’d said in my fair-but-firm voice, and watched him freeze in the doorway, “get back here.”
I pointed toward the mess on the floor, and the mess in the sink.
“Take care of this. Use a wet paper towel so the floor isn’t sticky and rinse all the cereal down the drain. Thanks so much.”
I’M NOT DALE’S MOM. BUT I’M JUST AS GUILTY OF CODDLING him as she is. I considered calling her—as part of his “we’re all a family” credo, Dale had included his own parents in the company directory—but I doubt that a woman who cashed in her own retirement to be her son’s first “investor” would see where I was coming from.
THE HOTEL PROPOSAL I’D SENT TO DALE WEEKS AGO IS THREE pages long. It includes a timeline for implementation with two of the largest extended-stay chains in the continental US, both trying to shed their image as sterile, impersonal places to stay in lieu of cor
porate housing or while trying to ride out a divorce settlement. Both desperate to compete with the fact that today’s younger business travelers preferred to stay in small, independent hotels furnished and stocked with local wares, or to rent an Airbnb. Their desperation was palpable on my initial calls, and I’d gotten both to agree to a five-year exclusive contract that included the purchase of a small bag of our dark roast as a welcome gift for their patrons and a kiosk with our full product range in the lobby. I could see, checking the history of the document on our shared drive, that Dale hadn’t even bothered to read it, instead sending email after email insisting that I was shirking my responsibilities.
I resend the hotel proposal I’d sent him weeks before, cc’ing Tessa. And then I go back downstairs to the rec room for karaoke hour, which runs from one to five PM every day.
If Dylan can learn how to clean up after himself, Dale can learn how to do his job.
THE SELF-ESTEEM BUBBLE I’D BEEN FILLING STEADILY AT THE office is slowly and steadily deflating. I’d spent the late afternoon at Costco, still riding high on my ping-pong wins and the standing ovation I’d received after my karaoke performance. Tonight is my campaign party, if that’s the right way to put it? It’s a party at my house to get to know the moms I’ve passed by for years in the pickup line or at class parties. Moms I know by their affiliation to their child, and not by first name. It’s dedicated time to convince them to cast their vote for me. I’d filled two carts—two—with mid-range bottles of champagne and wine and light beer and diet soda and sparkling water and every kind of bite-size snack I could find. I got frozen mini egg rolls and frozen mini quiches and frozen spanakopita and frozen mini tacos. I got two trays of crudités and a gallon of hummus. While I was at it, I loaded up on protein bars and printer paper and batteries and lightbulbs and tampons.
It was more food and drink than I’d had at my own wedding, and ten minutes after the official party start time has passed, I’m convinced I’ll end up eating all of it myself. Or, most of it myself. Carla is doing a good job on the wine, and Kiki has had at least four LaCroix since she arrived here. I’m not sure if she knows there’s no alcohol in it, because she tends to get a little silly after one.
Kiki checks her watch nervously, then her phone. “You know, most people like to be fashionably late,” she announces. “They’ll be here any minute, I’m sure.” Kiki does not like to be fashionably late. She likes to be fashionably early. She got to my house before I did today. When I got back from Costco, she was just sitting on the front porch like a latchkey kid, with a case of Pamplemousse and a two-liter of Diet Coke.
On cue, the doorbell rings, and I’m not sure why, since there are at least thirty balloons outside and a sign on the door that Kiki made with poster board and Magic Markers that says in joyful bubble letters, COME ON IN! THE PARTY IS HERE! On the other side of the door stands a very concerned and slightly confused woman.
“Is . . . this the party?” she asks, and suddenly I see myself through her eyes: my disheveled living room, when had I last cleaned? My two friends, one drunk, and one high on life. My dog, stumbling around with his vertigo. Streamers and balloons like we’re celebrating a baby shower and not a political campaign. Political campaign sounds a little extreme, but this is very political! This is about ending the reign of terror that Gwendolyn has imposed on moms in our community. It’s about standing up to the bad guys, even when the bad guys look like really hot moms with a lot of Instagram followers.
“The crew is gonna be here any minute,” says Carla, opening her flip phone like it had the capability to do something other than place phone calls and send very, very incomprehensible text messages.
“Really?” Our guest seems surprised. “I thought everyone was over at Gwendolyn’s house.”
If we’d been playing a record, this is the moment it would have scratched.
“Gwendolyn’s house?” I ask, trying desperately to sound casual. Our guest—what the hell is her name?—spoons hummus onto a plate nervously.
“Yeah. She’s . . . having a meet-the-candidate party, too. Martha Stewart and Chrissy Teigen are doing cooking demos.”
Carla slaps the plate out of this poor woman’s hand, sending a dollop of hummus smack onto the dining room rug, where Roscoe is resting.
“Are you fucking with us?” Carla asks, going into her Dom Toretto/Vin Diesel mode. “You better not be fucking with us.”
Our guest puts her hands up in surrender. “Check Instagram!” she shrieks. “You’ll see!”
“Instagram is a way for Big Brother to watch you through your camera phone.” Carla growls, but Kiki and I are already scrolling frantically. Gwendolyn is having a party. With Martha and Chrissy.
And every fucking mom at McKinley.
HERE’S THE THING: THERE IS A BIG DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE photos that Gwendolyn posted and the rest of the photos hashtagged #GwendolynForPrez. Gwendolyn’s are perfect, of course: perfectly framed and filtered images of the kind of party you wish you could throw. The first photo is Gwendolyn’s perfectly manicured hand, delicately holding a flute of champagne. In the background, you can see Martha and Chrissy laughing in Gwendolyn’s professional-grade kitchen. More photos by Gwendolyn: her driveway, filled with minivans; her living room, packed with moms; her hand holding the evening’s agenda, which it appears she calligraphed by hand. She’s scheduled out every moment of the evening, including a forty-five-minute keynote presentation by . . . herself?
I want to snark on it, but it looks fucking amazing. The election isn’t even here yet and I’ve already lost. I slump onto the couch, defeated.
“Don’t you dare believe that Instacrap.” Our guest/hostage laughs, pulling out her phone. “Jenn F., Archie and Trinket’s mom? She texted me and said she’s so fucking bored she’s making her husband call her in five minutes and say the kids are going into anaphylactic shock and she needs to meet them at the hospital.”
Carla emerges from the kitchen with two bottles of tequila, which Mike always kept on hand for “special occasions,” like a Tuesday night when he felt like getting blackout drunk.
Carla grabs this lady’s phone and takes a photo of the tequila. “Well, tell Jenn F. to get the fuck over here. We’re doing shots.”
THAT TEXT WORKS ITS WAY FROM ARCHIE AND TRINKET’S mom to Declan’s mom and Plum’s mom and Willow’s mom and Gertrude’s mom and the mom of every kid at McKinley named for an obscure flora, fauna, or historical figure and the mom of every kid named a regular name, but with an inexplicable K or X dropped in to make it unique (sorry, Jaxon), and every kid named for a character in a fantasy novel (we have three Aryas, and all their parents are trying to claim they never watched or read Game of Thrones). They trickle in, one or two moms at a time, greeted at the door by Carla, who offers everyone a shot of tequila. For all the time I’ve spent with and around these women, I’ve never seen them actually have fun. I’ve seen them do pickup and drop-off, and wipe vomit and/or blood from their kid’s shirts. I’ve seen them chaperone a field trip to the Science Museum with thirty-two first graders. I’ve seen them give standing ovations to school concerts that absolutely didn’t deserve it. I’ve seen them display happiness and joy directed at their children, but not just happiness and joy for themselves.
What really gets the party started is my playlist of late-nineties hits. Because nothing bonds a group of women on the cusp of middle age like harmonizing to “This Is How We Do It” by Montell Jordan. Hearing the first three seconds of “Pony” by Ginuwine makes it physically impossible for us not to grind on each other like we’re the cast of Coyote Ugly. Kyler’s mom—sorry, Lindsi—knows the entire choreography to Britney’s “Toxic” and we listen to the song eight times in a row just so we can watch her do it. It’s amazing.
“Amy!” a mom screams over the sounds of “Genie in a Bottle,” “I puked in your dishwasher!” I give her a thumbs-up as I survey my Most Successful Party of All Time.
I think it was Kiki who started it. The girl loves
to chant. At first, it’s just a few drunk voices, not quite in unison. “Speech! Speech! Speech!”
Eventually, it’s the entire party, and I realize when I see Carla and Kiki standing on my sofa that the speech they’re waiting for is supposed to come from me.
“Welcome to meet the fucking candidate night!” shouts Carla, like she’s announcing a professional wrestling event. Someone stops the music, and Carla has the undivided attention of every mom in the house. Kiki tries to pipe up, “My best friend Carla and I are so honored to be working on the campaign for our third best friend, Amy Mitchell. A lot of people think you can’t have two best friends, but—”
Carla places her hand over Kiki’s mouth. “Are you ready for Amy FUCKING Mitchell?” she shouts, and the chanting resumes.
“A-my! A-my! A-my!”
I’ve spent twelve years yelling at the kids not to stand on the furniture, but here I am, standing on my sofa trying to figure out what to say to a group of drunk moms who really just want to get back to playing flip cup.
“Hey! Hi.” I know, I know. Real dynamic start to my first stump speech.
“I’m Amy. You know, I wasn’t ready to give a speech or anything. Just like I’m not really ready for anything, ever. I don’t know about you, but I feel like I spend a lot of time pretending. Not the fun kind, not make-believe. I spend a lot of time pretending I’m perfect, that I have it all together, and the truth is, I have no idea what I’m fucking doing. All I know is that I’m really tired. I’m really tired of having to work so hard on shit that doesn’t matter to my kids, or to me. I’m tired of marathon PTA meetings and insane bake sales. I’m tired of all the bullshit.” I had to pause here. Not for dramatic effect, but because people were cheering. Like, cheering the way we usually cheer for our kids. I heard a few “fuck yeahs” in there, too. Maybe I’m not so bad at this.
“I know we all want to have happy kids. Of course we do. And I don’t think you can have happy kids without a happy mom. And that means we need to give ourselves a break. It’s not selfish to need some time to yourself. It’s not selfish to be here tonight. Holy shit I needed this! So. If you’re tired of feeling like you’re not good enough. If you’re tired of feeling like you’re not doing enough. If you’re just tired? Vote for me.”
Bad Moms Page 16
