Adult Conversation

by Brandy Ferner

  I skimmed the crisp pages and hypnotic chapter titles, looking for something that nodded to the piles of junk that kids accumulate, which sat directly in front of me. That’s what I really wanted to know—how does one tidy with children in the mix? Isn’t that like shoveling while it’s snowing? Brushing your teeth while eating Oreos? There had to be something about mountains of stuffed animals or the influx of Oriental Trading Company sewage. But there was no mention of children or tchotchkes anywhere. I kept skimming and stopped dead in my tracks when I read the advice to place every single clothing item you and your family own onto the floor, in one giant heap, then hug each thing and ask yourself if it “sparks joy.” First of all, if I placed every single piece of my family’s clothing on the floor, I would have to step around it for the next ten years. This was pretty much already happening with the clean clothes that never got put away. Second, if this book came with a nanny and an inheritance to buy only joyful things, then sure, there were probably some life-changing concepts in there. But my time would be better spent actually cleaning rather than reading a book about how to do it right. Thirdly, I am not hugging and then having a conversation with my period panties about their value. I’m just not.

  I texted Danielle and asked her if she knew about this book, and if so, was any of it was useful.

  Never heard of it. Sounds like some white people shit.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  I picked up my phone and Googled, “Did Marie Kondo have kids when she wrote her book?” Google’s answer was: of course not. I shut the book. I knew I would want to do the things Ms. Kondo suggested to achieve decluttered ecstasy, but none of them could be done with small children. June had recommended it, but why would she blueball a frazzled mother of two with home-organization porn?

  I put the book on the table and bent down again, leaning over the Big Bin of Pointless Crap. I did a quick liquidation of the next most obviously worthless items, such as a deflated latex balloon, an unfixable wind-up toy, an old toothbrush, and a toxic Mardi Gras necklace. The small purging felt like a spiritual cleanse.

  Just then, a groggy Aaron walked down the stairs. He rubbed his eyes and squinted, adjusting to the light of the world outside Elliot’s cave. He was wearing his thin comfy pants that outlined his package.

  “Hey,” he said, heading straight for the snack cabinet.

  “Hey.”

  “I looked up the museum hours and they open at ten on Saturday morning, so we can get out of your hair then, if you want.”

  “Oh my God, yes.”

  “And we can get lunch on the way home too,” he added, sitting down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. Sometimes marriage felt like a constant ping-pong match between resentments and redemptions.

  I scooched into the crook of his arm, between he and the popcorn bowl. “Thank you,” I said, stopping and looking up into his emerald green eyes. And then I kissed him.

  “Wow, so all I have to do is mention taking the kids somewhere and I get that?” he asked whilst shoving handfuls of popcorn into his mouth. It shouldn’t have taken him eight years to figure this out.

  “Yep. But the lunch offer was really the clincher.”

  “In that case, consider every Saturday yours—and the children fed.”

  I kissed him again, popcorn mouth and all. His soft lips reminded me of how our love started, in my dorm room on that cold night when someone threw a beer bottle through the closed window while we made out. Amid the shattered window glass, we found the beer bottle standing straight up on the floor, unbroken, as if someone had intentionally set it there. Aaron wouldn’t let me set foot on the floor until he had found and removed every last glass shard.

  When I pulled away from him, I noticed white popcorn flecks in his beard. He held still as I picked them out, like an ape. I wondered what Marie Kondo would say about that. She probably had a pocket Dustbuster for moments just like these and wasn’t above vacuuming a grown man’s beard before a kiss, or pubes before intercourse.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Life-Changing Magic of Alone Time

  In just two days, I had a hot date with myself. And an old fling—my sewing machine. I sat at the kitchen table, daydreaming about what project would win my attention first, while Violet watched Sofia the First nearby on the couch. One single session of feeling seen, heard, and validated by June had freed me. My inner cassette tape of wonders, worries, and resentments had mostly gone from a fast-talking, high-pitched chipmunk voice down to a deep, slow, witness-protection voice. Clearing up some of that head space made room for patience and pleasure.

  My email dinged. It was a message from my birth doula-turned-friend, Martha. She was at least twenty-five years my senior, and had silver hair, like all fantastical creatures do. Martha rubbed my hips during back labor with Elliot, and she held Violet on top of my chest for skin-to-skin contact in the operating room as I was stitched back together. Unexpectedly, I watched the entire thing in the OR lamp’s reflection above myself in horror. It was like being in a Saw movie. The birth books hadn’t mentioned that part.

  Martha was by my side, vagina, and breasts during the two most vulnerable and meaningful moments of my life. She mothered me in those early days, and for some reason that I didn’t fully comprehend, she continued to show up for me, as if I offered anything. She always seemed to be tapped into something bigger. Like a fairy godmother, she could sense when she was needed, so it was not surprising to find her divinely-timed email in my inbox as the birds chirped outside my window.

  Martha Blackman

  To: April Stewart

  Hello

  Good morning, my dear. I have an exciting opportunity for you that I wanted to discuss. Can you steal away from the littles to chat on the phone either tonight or tomorrow?

  Sending love,

  Martha

  I sat up straight in my chair, excited and puzzled. This sounded different than our usual emails about life, kids, and birth. I immediately let her know.

  Suddenly Elliot barged through the door, slinging his backpack off and waving a yellow paper. “Mom, I’m gonna do the science fair!”

  “Fun!”

  “It’s gonna have all the planets and a supernova and maybe somehow show the multiverse.” He made grand sweeping motions with his hands.

  “Sounds like a big project. When is it due?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  My head fell back in despair, as if my neck muscles had been severed in one clean slice. I had not intended a trip to the craft store, nor paper-mâchéing a multiverse before dinner, but I should’ve known this was coming for me, like an envelope of anthrax in the mail, as we neared summer break. It was as if the teachers purposefully withheld all the most intricate, and also unnecessary, projects until us moms were at our most vulnerable—having just barely survived one week of constant kid togetherness for spring break, and now hopelessly looking down the barrel of ten weeks of summer. I imagined the school’s barrage of last-minute projects as retribution for the year of parental sins such as sending nut butter sandwiches for snack time, vehemently refusing to volunteer at the carnival churro booth, or your kid being a total shitbag in class every single day of the year. But before I answered Elliot in frustration, June’s voice chimed in, reminding me to tend to myself. My muscles re-engaged as I brought my head back into a neutral position.

  “I’m sure your dad would love to figure that out with you when he gets home.”

  Aaron pulled in the garage as the street lights blinked on. He had no idea what was waiting for him. Before he was fully in the door, Elliot was all over him like slime on your rug.

  “Dad, you and me get to make a whole solar system tonight with a black hole and can I use the glue gun, pleeeease?” I pretended to be distracted by Violet in the other room, as to not get sucked into any of the black-hole discussion. Aaron could figure it out, just like I’d had to all these years.

  “Can I eat dinner first?” he begged.

  One bowl of leftovers la
ter, Aaron sat at the kitchen table helping Elliot cut, color, and glue planet printouts onto the back of an old poster board from last year’s project. A little glitter and some labeling, and it was done. Elliot’s last-minute science fair decision had surprisingly made the entire process less stressful than if we’d had an entire month to prepare. No life-size, spray-painted, delicately hanging, to-scale model of the solar system here. Nope. Just a half-baked but good-enough planet poster, with which he was thrilled. No capital Q’s either. Aaron was such a lucky bastard.

  When both kids were finally asleep and alone in their beds, I whisked away upstairs to call Martha, cup of tea in hand. Aaron gave me a glittery thumbs-up as he blissfully started episode six of another captivating murder documentary on Netflix—post-dinner chips and salsa on deck.

  It was the time of the day when my bra had to go, even if it made my petite silhouette look boyish in the mirror. I propped up the pillows in my bed, got my legs under the covers, and dialed Martha. One of my core life philosophies was “Everything’s better while lying in bed.” Old age and the prepared meals of a retirement home couldn’t come soon enough for me.

  Martha answered in an almost meditative tone. Her slow, soothing voice always brought me back to my labors. “April, it finally dawned on me today why I’ve been busy with at least five births a month the past handful of years and it’s finally slowing down. Do you have any inkling of why?” I didn’t know. “The birth of a book franchise called Fifty Shades of Grey. Lots of sex and lots of babies. I am one tired doula.”

  I hadn’t read the book myself, because that would require free time, but I knew what Martha was talking about. “And you made it to all of those births?” I asked.

  “Somehow I did. I have no fucking idea how,” she said, cackling. One of my favorite things about her was that age didn’t squash her ability to drop obscenities. “What are you guys up to over there?”

  “Just recoiling from Aaron’s touch and seeing a therapist,” I joked, but not really.

  “What is that about?”

  I retold the story of recoil.

  “Been there. Plain and simple, you were touched out,” she said.

  Martha had been married for forty-five years, had six grown kids of her own and ten grandbabies. She often spoke about the ups and downs of married life and parenting from an eagle’s view, seeing everything as part of a whole, and noticing what was truly important and what wasn’t. It was the opposite of how I saw things from behind my in-the-trenches, mud-splattered goggles.

  “Martha, how do I do it? How do I fulfill everyone’s needs and not lose my sanity?” I asked. I was on a never-ending quest for the answers to my burning questions and I’m sure I annoyed the shit out of people. They all pretended not to hate me because of it.

  “You don’t do it, really. There is no fulfilling everyone’s needs. You know none of us get through this thing without fucking up our kids, right?”

  I didn’t know that. Embarrassed, I said nothing.

  “And it’s never the thing you think,” she continued, chuckling. “You focus so hard on not messing up one thing, you completely miss another. We all do. But you get through it and hopefully there are some sweet spots along the way for everyone.”

  “That’s bleak, Martha.”

  “Well, hopefully you don’t miss the big stuff, but maybe you do. You won’t know until it’s too late anyway.”

  She was laughing again while I was basically hyperventilating. I refused to miss the big stuff. Also, I wanted to be at the stage where I could have a good ole guffaw about my parenting missteps. I wasn’t there yet. Would I ever be there?

  “What about husbands?”

  “Do you know what Aaron’s sweet spots are, like little things you could do to let him know you’re still connected, that are meaningful to him personally, and don’t cost you your sanity?”

  I hated that we were focusing on Aaron’s needs, but I was the one that asked her the question. “His are mostly sexual. I am barely in one piece when I crawl into bed at night and I simply don’t have any energy to put out.”

  “I remember feeling like that. There was no way sex was going to happen. Can you maybe scale it down a bit. What if it wasn’t full-on sex?”

  “Are we talking blow jobs here?”

  “Well, whatever somewhat satisfies his need for connection but is doable for you. Maybe that’s a blow job, maybe it’s a hand job, or something else altogether. I bet he’d rather get a few hand jobs from you than nothing.” The fact that Martha looked at babies coming out of vaginas for a living meant that we could also talk frankly about hand jobs—hand jobs I didn’t want to have to give.

  “I for sure can’t do regular blow jobs,” I admitted, wincing.

  “Then don’t. But in marriage, you have to find each other’s currency and make little deposits into your accounts. You can’t give them a big lump sum all the time, so you throw ‘em some chump change when you can,” she explained. Really Martha, when I’m at my lowest I need to be giving my husband more blow jobs? “So, what is your currency, my dear—what is your sweet spot?” Okay, better.

  “Not sex, I can tell you that. Sleeping in. Sleeping in is my sex.”

  “You need to tell him that. And maybe these little efforts will keep that spark going. I don’t envy you though. Your generation has it way harder than mine did.”

  I believed her—God, I believed her. I never once saw Marnie wipe a cart handle with an antibacterial wipe nor read a food label—things I did multiple times a day as a mother. But I wanted to know what Martha saw through her lens, so I asked her.

  “I was young when I became a mom. I didn’t even know who I was yet. Today’s moms have entire careers and lives before kids. You all are trying to be more than we ever were,” she said.

  “Including thoughtful wives,” I added.

  “It ain’t easy, that’s for sure. I wish I could tell you to just ignore your marriage in these hard years with little ones. But if left unattended, that spark can die out.”

  It felt like someone had sucked the air out of the room. Her words scared me, because I knew she was right. I took another sip of tea, gripping the cup handle for dear life.

  “So what’s this about a therapist?” she asked.

  I didn’t want Martha to counsel me for our entire conversation. I now had June for that. “Long story, but first, I’m dying to hear about this opportunity.”

  “Oh yes. That.” Her voice quickened. “I have a friend of a friend who owns the cutest little boutique in Costa Mesa. Both of them were at my house for dinner last night and saw Danny in the octopus shirt you made for him a while back. The store owner fell in love with it and wants to carry your stuff in her store. Do you have time to put together some things for her—she said maybe ten shirts or so?”

  I set my tea cup down on the nightstand and sat forward, smiling in disbelief.

  “Do you even have the time for it right now? I don’t want to pressure you. I just know that my friend was impressed with your . . .”

  “No, Martha, this opportunity could not have come at a better time,” I interrupted. “Thank you for pimping me out.”

  “It wasn’t me, my dear. You’re the one who gave Danny that adorable shirt. I will email your information to the boutique owner. Her name is CeCe. Let me warn you, she’s out there. Oh wait, Rick’s motioning something at me and it looks urgent.”

  “Let me guess, it looks like his hand is gripping something and he’s moving it in and out of his mouth?” I played. Martha cackled so hard she coughed.

  “Oh Lord,” she said, catching her breath, “He knows better than to get me off the phone to give him a blow job. Or does he? We shall find out.”

  I sat smiling in bed alone, like an idiot. I had been given value, outside of being “just” a mom. My hands were needed in this world for something other than ass wiping. My mind wandered, imagining my designs popping up in a variety of local stores, remembering what that felt like before. But bef
ore, I wasn’t trying to juggle two kids while doing it. Was this even possible now? My brain was trying to get ahead of itself and strangle all my fun. Back the fuck up, April. It’s just ten shirts. You’re not some working mom all of a sudden.

  I took a final gulp of tea and raced downstairs to tell Aaron the joyous news about having value again. He didn’t blink as I galloped down the stairs. He was too gripped by grisly footage and a new twist in the case.

  “Guess what?” I asked. He didn’t break. “Hey guy, over here,” I said, like I had to do with Elliot and his iPad. It broke his trance.

  “Martha just told me that someone she knows who owns a boutique wants to carry my shirts!” I was sqeeeeing.

  “Whoa, awesome, A.B.!” he said. “Where? How?” After I told him, the magnetism of the tampered-with evidence pulled him right back to the TV. Of course he had no idea of the significance of this news. As a working man in the world, he had never lost his value. But I was so proud that my art, my octopus t-shirt had created a legitimate opportunity, that I refused to be bothered by his lackluster response. I left him to his manslaughter and went back upstairs.

  When Saturday came, I could hardly contain myself. Four hours of impending freedom were going to feel like a defibrillator. An email from the store owner, CeCe, helped. It read somewhat like a telegram.

  CeCe D’Ambrosia

  To: April Stewart

  No Subject

  I adore your designs. I think my customers will too. Please bring me ten shirts. A variety of sizes and styles. That octopus stole my heart. Make sure you put a few in there. I will pay you. Can you drop them off within two weeks? Love and light, CeCe

  I fired an enthusiastic email right back, before I could overthink the logistics.