“Make a wish!” I encouraged her. “Didn’t your mom teach you to do that when you lose an eyelash?”
To be perfectly frank, I wasn’t sure if the wish rules included eyelash extensions, but I was trying to be nice. I expected to be thoroughly berated, but instead, she laughed, closed her eyes, and blew the eyelash extension from the tip of my finger before she blinked her eyes open.
“Nope. You’re still here.”
There’s the Gwendolyn I was looking for! My blood pressure spiked, and my brain switched on. What was the thing I was going to say to her? The thing that was going to fully put her in her place? I was gearing up to lose my shit when Gwendolyn beat me to it.
“You know what, Amy?” she said through clenched teeth. “To answer your original question . . . no, I am not okay. Not even close. This”—she gestured toward McKinley, as if it were her kingdom, which . . . I guess it kind of is—“this was the last good thing I had in my life. And now that’s gone, too.”
My eyes rolled so hard they nearly dislocated themselves.
“Really, Gwendolyn? That’s the last good thing in your life? Your life is PERFECT. Do you even follow yourself on Instagram? This is one stupid little election, you’ve got like, three boats!”
“I have four boats,” she corrected me, “and who gives a shit? Now get in.” I got in before she could change her mind. It was freezing out, and I instantly relaxed into her heated seats.
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT A CAR RIDE THAT MAKES IT EASIER to share your deepest, darkest secrets with someone. Maybe it’s the proximity and the lack of eye contact? The fact that the doors are locked, and that the conversation can only last until your destination is reached?
I barely had time to buckle my seatbelt when Gwendolyn unloaded on me.
“You know, Amy. I really did like your speech tonight. You made a lot of really salient points.”
I did? I mean, hell yeah I did, I won the election!
“It’s hard to be a mom,” she said. “It’s hard for me, too, Amy.”
I know she’s right. I know that not everything that shines on Instagram is going to be gold. But what I don’t know is why she’s telling me this.
“Don’t you wonder how I found out about you and Mike?” she asked, and I shook my head.
“I don’t know, I just figured that your little gossipmongers told you.”
“Where do you think my husband is, Amy? He’s shacked up in the same hotel as Mike.”
That surprised me. Her husband—and I have no idea what his name is because she always refers to him as “my husband” as if that’s what is printed on his birth certificate—seemed as perfect as the rest of her life.
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s in love with his high school girlfriend. Isn’t that cute? And all of the money he invested in his Northern California weed farms is going to finance their new life together ‘off the grid’ whatever the fuck that means.”
“Okay, that is not good,” I said, trying not to sound freaked out. Could it possibly be that Gwendolyn and I were more alike than we were different? Could this be a goddamn lesson for me? We were on my block, finally. And even though I’ve envied Gwendolyn’s walk-in pantry and her high-end seasonal décor, I had a full and new appreciation for my own cozy neighborhood. I loved the bikes lying in every front yard, and the sagging front porches that are decorated year-round with Christmas lights. My own flickering porch light, which I’ve been meaning to replace for years, was now a beacon of hope in this bizarre conversation in my enemy’s car.
Gwendolyn silently pulled into my driveway, her car proudly announcing to us that we had arrived at our destination. I could tell Gwendolyn wasn’t done talking, that I uncorked something inside her that wasn’t ready to stop flowing. So even though I just wanted to go inside, put on some sweatpants, and fall asleep watching Netflix, I did something I never thought I’d do.
I invited Gwendolyn James into my home.
“CAN I ASK WHERE YOU GOT THIS?” GWENDOLYN SAYS, SINKING into the worn cushions and pulling one of my old afghans over herself. “Please don’t tell me it’s custom, I have to have one just like it.”
“It’s from a little shop called IKEA,” I say like a TV host. “You might be able to get them to make one for you, too.”
“No kidding?” She sighs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Gwendolyn is wearing one of Mike’s hoodies and a pair of my old sweatpants, her blond hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head. We’ve spent the better part of the night sitting on opposite sides of the couch, our legs tucked under a pile of throw blankets and pillows, drinking some herbal tea that I’m sure she was judging for not being artisanal.
For all the revenge fantasies I played out in my head, none of them involved Gwendolyn James weeping on my couch about her life, begging my forgiveness for what she’d done to Jane. None of them involved me tucking Gwendolyn in on my beat-up IKEA couch after she’d cried herself to sleep. And none of them involved me gently shaking her awake the next morning so she could provide proof of life to the other McKinley moms.
Gwendolyn picks up her phone and scrolls through her notifications.
“Christ,” she says, sighing and patting the space on the couch next to her. “Come here, Mitchell.”
I settle in, handing Gwendolyn her coffee, and she lifts her phone up, tilting her head toward mine. Our sleep-lined faces fill her screen, and Gwendolyn smiles.
“Say ‘bad moms’!” she whispers, and pushes the red button.
Part III
Winter
46
Amy
Aside from the recent delivery of a small cardboard box filled with framed photos, half-used pens, and about two dozen lipsticks and lip glosses that had been at my desk during my time at CoCo, I haven’t thought of my old job since I was fired/quit. I have been very busy embracing my new life as an unemployed single mom. Mike and I are in mediation, and we all do family therapy together, so the kids are learning how to identify and process their feelings, which, it turns out, is something that Mike and I also need to learn. Jane asked for her own (leather-bound, monogrammed, college-ruled) journal for Christmas, and I gave her four, because I know she’s going to fill them. I swear I don’t read them while she’s at Mike’s apartment (okay, I sometimes do).
I’m not going to act like divorce was the answer to all my problems and now life is perfect. Sometimes I miss Mike, and the encyclopedic way he knows me. But that’s just sometimes. Mostly, my life involves exciting things like comparing the price per unit of the generic vs. brand-name toilet paper at Target. That’s where I am, stocking up on two-ply, when my phone rings.
Dale? Obviously a butt dial.
I answer anyway.
“Hello?” It isn’t silence, or the telltale rustling of a butt dial; it’s pandemonium, like when you call Kiki right before naptime.
“Dale? DALE.”
“Amy! Oh, Amy, thank God. I need you to come back.” His voice is desperate, and when he catches his breath, I listen to at least twenty straight minutes of apologies.
BY THE TIME I REACH THE CHECKOUT LINE, I AM THE PROUD new CMO of Coffee Collective, making enough money to pay the mortgage on my own, and with a schedule that includes time for me to be a mom, and a person. Speaking of which, I am still a person, aren’t I?
ME: Have you ever slept with a Boss?
JESSE: Like, my own boss? Have you seen him?
JESSE: Do you want to?
ME: No, idiot. We’ve got 2 hours till pickup.
JESSE: I don’t know, I have some pretty cool meetings this afternoon . . .
JESSE: YES. YES. YES.
* * *
To: McKinley PTA
From: Amy Mitchell
CC: Principal Burr; McKinley Staff
Subject: WHOOPSY!
Hey there,
Amy Mitchell here, reporting for duty. Sorry I have been MIA. I tried to log in to this email address using my usual password (my dog’s name and my birthday, pl
ease don’t steal my identity), but I had my birthday wrong. My OWN BIRTHDAY. I got locked out like a doofus and then the holidays happened, and things got a little away from me. Anyway, shoutout to the parents and teachers who still figured out how to make the concert happen and how to arrange a non-denominational solstice gift exchange. Turns out you might not need me, but too bad because I’m back and ready to associate the FUDGE out of our parents and teachers!
Do you regret electing me yet?
To: McKinley PTA
From: Mike Mitchell
Subject: RE: WHOOPSY!
I went to the wrong school for pickup yesterday. I waited for 20 minutes outside a school our kids have never even attended before I realized where I was. So, I think you’re pretty great.
To: Mike Mitchell
From: Amy Mitchell
Subject: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
Mike! You REPLIED ALL!
To: McKinley PTA
From: Jan McManus
Subject: RE: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
I forgot my son’s name last night. I called him Jack (my husband), Boomer (our dog), Lindsay (his sister), and then . . . just ran out of options and stared at him, blankly.
To: McKinley PTA
From: Carl Thorpe
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
My kids ate their cereal with coffee creamer today because we ran out of milk.
To: McKinley PTA
From: Kent
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
I threatened to throw all the LEGOs in the recycling this morning.
To: McKinley PTA
From: Amy Mitchell
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
Okay! Sounds like we’re all on the same page here. I am honored to be your deeply flawed leader. I am also relieved to know that we are a band of fools just doing our best, and I’m hoping we can all figure out this parenting thing together.
I want to start by saying, if you don’t have time to give to the PTA, THAT IS OKAY! This is a completely optional part of parenthood, and if the only thing you can handle right now is making sure your kid gets to school, well, okay. Because sometimes even that is hard (anyone else have a child that basically morphs into a sloth as soon as it’s time to get in the car?).
And if you want to spend all your time helping? GREAT! Get in where you fit in, give what you can, and don’t stress too much. Our kids are going to be fine whether or not we help them launch a rocket into space, and it’s okay if their pizza rolls aren’t organic.
If you have questions or comments, let me know. I’m only checking this email address on Thursdays, so I’ll get back to you then.
Xo,
Amy Mitchell
Gwendolyn James Style
Farewell, Friends!
Beautiful Readers:
Thank you for your many years of support here at Gwendolyn James Style. I’ve so loved walking the journey of motherhood alongside all of you. Alas, all good things must come to an end, and that includes my blogging career.
I’m going to be spending some time offline, reconnecting with my true essence and reassessing my priorities. If you’re looking for a new source of inspiration, follow my friend Oska over at her brand-new blog.
In Love and Light and Great Style,
Gwendolyn James
Part IV
Spring
47
Carla
I packed for a weekend away. You never know how long a baseball game is going to take, or where the weather will go in the Midwest. I bought one of those foldy chairs that the other moms are always sitting in, one with a little canopy above it in case it rains or if it’s too sunny. It has an oversize cup holder, too, so it’ll fit my giant gas station soda (or a forty if it turns into that kinda night).
I found a cooler in the back of the garage, and once I wiped all the spider eggs off it and gave it a rinse in the shower, it was good as . . . not new, but as good as anything you could find on the side of the road. I packed three red Gatorades, two Diet Mountain Dews, and some of those baby carrots that look like orange amputated fingers. You know, some healthy shit. I also got a few beef and cheddars because protein is a necessary part of any kid’s diet and if Jaxon sweats a lot, he might need some extra sodium.
IT TOOK FORTY-EIGHT MINUTES TO GET TO THE FIELD. I crawled through traffic, watching the clock tick closer and closer to game time. Who were all these fuckers in their cars at five PM and why were they driving the exact same direction as me? I had forgotten about this part. Baseball isn’t just a few hours watching a bunch of kids stand around a big field of dirt and grass grabbing at their nuts; it’s all that after a long-ass drive to some godforsaken suburb that has a law against open containers in public parks.
The minute Jaxon was old enough to ride the team bus, I shoved him on it and claimed that drive time as Carla Time. It was almost ten extra hours a week to do whatever the hell I felt like, and you know what I never felt like? Sitting through several hours of a sport where basically nothing happens.
Tonight is a surprise for Jaxon. My mom was always promising to show up to shit. Then I’d sit there like a dipshit looking through the crowd for her like she’d actually show. I’ve been under-promising and under-delivering to Jaxon his whole life, but now I’m trying to under-promise and over-deliver. This morning, I’d seen him off to school like I always do. Well, sort of like I always do. We didn’t go to the Arby’s drive-thru, and we weren’t running late. I’d gotten up early to wake him up, and we’d eaten breakfast together. I packed him a lunch—Kiki printed out a bunch of shit from the Internet about kale, so I jammed a bunch of it in a sandwich—and I dropped him off ten minutes before the bell rang. It’s weird, but weird is kinda normal for us now.
It’s been a weird couple of months. And not just for us. At drop-off, nearly every mom I see is still in her pajamas, drinking coffee from a regular mug, her greasy hair in a messy bun. But there aren’t as many moms as usual. There are tons of dads, bewildered and asking one another for directions to their kids’ classrooms, negotiating tantrums, wrestling little ones out of their car seats, and generally looking like they could puke at any minute. Now I can barely even pick Hot Jesse out of the crowd, because there are so many men wearing Elsa backpacks wandering the sidewalks. It’s been awesome.
THE OTHER BASEBALL MOMS ARE USUALLY HERE ABOUT forty minutes early, before the team even arrives. They use that time to manicure the field (I think that means cleaning up any cigarette butts left behind by the beer league softball teams), to set up the “hydration station” for the players (apparently water isn’t descriptive enough), and to set up their own little pad for helicopter parenting. Dads arrive somewhere between the first and third innings, to find their seats ready and waiting, with an array of snacks and beverages for them to choose from.
Weirdly, I’m the first mom to arrive, just ten minutes before game time. Am I even at the right place? I choose the perfect spot to watch the game: close enough to our team’s bench to look like I give a shit about team spirit and far enough away that the other parents can’t easily engage me in conversation. The team is winding down warm-ups (a lot of standing around, with small bits of running and catching in between) when I finish setting up my little Dunklerville. I’m just about to crack my first Diet Mountain Dew of the night when Jaxon comes barreling over, grinning like a golden retriever.
“You’re here?!” he screams, throwing his arms around me so hard I hear my back pop a little bit. “Are you staying the whole game?”
Uh, look around you, kid. I could stay the entire week if it comes to extra innings. “Yeah, of course I am,” I say, squeezing him back. “Duh, I fucking love you, ya dummy.”
He is still hugging me when the whistle blows.
“Dunkler!” his coach shouts. “Get over here, it’s game time!”
I watch Jaxon jog back over to the bench for a couple hours of standing around. God, I wish I’d brought something harder than Mountain Dew. To my left,
I can see a pair of khaki legs about to step into my view and I swear to God above if I came all this way just to get in a physical altercation—
“Excuse me? Ms. Dunkler?” It’s Mr. Nolan. He’s wearing a T-shirt and a baseball hat and I gotta say, it’s pretty hot.
“What’s up, Nolan?” I say, trying to be breezy and casual. “You gonna take a seat or what?”
I scoot over to make room for him, but he laughs.
“I’m the assistant coach. I guess we’ll have to schedule a one-on-one after the game?” He squats down next to me, and his knees don’t even crack. “In case I’m not being clear,” he says, looking right into my eyes, “in three weeks I will no longer be Jaxon’s teacher and I would like to take you on a date.”
“Hell yeah,” I say, and watch his cute ass jog over to the bench.
48
Kiki
My HNYDO app is long gone from my phone. Kent and I had a long talk after the election, and he agreed to revisit the breakdown of work duties in our home. We used some of the same analysis tools he uses at work and, it turns out, all my unpaid labor was worth more than Kenton’s yearly salary, even with bonuses! He’s been folding his own socks and packing lunches ever since. Plus, I take every Saturday morning off to get a special coffee with the girls. That’s what I call Amy and Carla now. Isn’t that cute?
“OH MY GOD, DID YOU GET FIRED?!”
Kent arrives at exactly 5:36 every single day, 5:34 if he hits green lights on Douglas Avenue. He does not, ever, under any circumstances, come home at 1:27 PM. There is just one possible explanation: he’s lost his job, and now we’re going to lose our house, our minivan, and all our dreams. On the upside, if we end up living in a two-bedroom apartment, I’ll at least have less space to clean. And if the kids all share a bed, that’s a lot less laundry, too. It’s been thirty seconds since Kent walked in the door and I’ve already settled into our new way of life, taking a night job to make ends meet while Kent struggles to find gainful employment during the day, serving the kids regular milk instead of organic.
Bad Moms Page 22
