“What have you done differently than your mother?” The answer was just about everything. Although it wreaked havoc on my nervous system, my overly thoughtful nature was a guardrail for child neglect. “Because you have given your kids adequate love and attention, couldn’t you take some time just for yourself and have that be okay—have it not scar them? The scar comes from not having the bond secured in the first place. It doesn’t sound like your bond with your kids is in question at all.”
She was right. And it hurt. And it gave me huge relief. And then it hurt again. Feeling profound pain at the passive hands of your own mother felt like it violated the very laws of nature and was the most disastrous twist of fate— one that I had been desperately trying to avoid with my own kids, but at my own expense. Sure, I wasn’t a perfect mother by any means—and every day I edged closer to Marnie on the quirky scale—but I had built a strong foundation for us that could withstand a babysitter, of all fucking things. This simple acknowledgement unfroze me.
“Dammit, I wish I met you years ago. Why did I wait so long to take care of myself?” My question was maybe not for June.
“A million reasons. The stigma of therapy. Finances. Our healthcare system that doesn’t have a safety net for moms. The struggle to see our value when there is no ‘in-come’ from our work as mothers. The feeling of being invisible, even to our spouse.” Her voice wavered at the end. A first.
“Aaron had to be blind not to see that I was circling the drain.”
June’s fingers tapped on the chair’s armrest like she was trying to resist saying something more. She looked down at the back of her hand. I wanted her to say whatever it was she was holding back.
Say it, June.
My ESP worked. “Our husbands will not save us. This is a hard lesson. We have to advocate for ourselves because no one . . .”
“. . . else will.” We finished the sentence together, mirroring each other.
“That’s what led me here, to you,” I said. June blinked hard in agreement, opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it, brushing off the thighs of her white pants, nervously. I was in total support of this crack in her veneer, and also concerned about it. Her words had a palpable sense of desertion behind them and I was dying to know more. Maybe I had assumed too much about June and her curated outfits and office décor, and what I presumed to be a foolproof marriage. She re-centered herself, sitting up straight in her chair as she redirected course.
“How did you like the book I loaned you? Did you have a chance to read it?”
I pulled it out. “I hated it.” June looked at me confused. “It’s unrealistic. The crackpot lady who wrote this doesn’t have kids. She talks about aiming for perfection. If I clean my floors, the second I put the broom away, one of my kids is immediately shoving veggie straws in their mouth like a wood chipper, spraying shards everywhere. Perfection is not possible.”
“Okay.”
“And this ‘do it all in one go’ thing, where you take every single item you own and put it in a pile like you’re about to erect a tire fire in your house, is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. My life is measured in fifteen-minute increments and Elmo’s Worlds. I don’t have an entire day to do anything, much less have skin-to-skin contact with all my belongings.”
She laughed out loud. “Duly noted.”
At that, our time was up.
Saying goodbye was always odd, especially today, as we both stood there connected by the tiny seed June had dropped. A hand gesture, a limp handshake, or nothing at all felt insufficient after having bared my soul. Thanks for watching me cry again today. Here’s a creepy wave. But a hug felt like an inappropriate next step, for some unspoken reason. Thankfully June eventually stuck out her hand and offered a warm smile before I fell on the ground seizing in awkwardness at how to exit appropriately.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Love and Light (and Lips)
My last lingering hesitation about hiring a babysitter was laid to rest in June’s office when she helped me realize the small detail that I was not my mother, and that we weren’t even on the same track. Aaron’s concerns about stranger danger were appeased when I offered that if he had apprehensions about hiring a babysitter, he was welcome to take time off work to do the leg-work required to find the perfect one.
I arranged for Danielle’s babysitter, Tanya, to come over and hang out with Violet for two hours while Elliot was at school. It would be a trial. Tanya had specifically mentioned in her return texts that she would bring a princess sticker book for she and Violet to do together. This was going to work out just fine. And suddenly the $10-per-hour cost sounded affordable. Cheaper than a divorce, or a burial.
Tanya knocked on the door. Violet ran toward it wearing her purple Rapunzel dress and shouting, “Stickers!” She had taken the bribe.
Tanya, with straight blonde hair, stood in the doorway wearing a Princess Jasmine t-shirt and Vans sneakers covered in tiny Genies, holding the promised sticker book. She was really blurring the line between knowing her audience and red-flag territory.
Tanya crouched down to Violet’s level. “You must be Princess Violet.”
Violet nodded, but found my leg and clung to it.
“Danielle raves about you,” I said.
“I just love Owen. He’s such a sweetheart.”
Red flag number two.
Violet was eyeing the sticker book in Tanya’s hands, but stayed glued to me, her little fingers gripping hard. “Violet, this is Tanya. She’s the fun person that’s going to play with you.” I was doing the fake excited-mom voice to pressure your kid into feeling okay about something they don’t. “And there’s the super fun sticker book we talked about.” Had I mentioned this was going to be fun? A slight grin eked out of Violet, but this was new territory for her. She hadn’t had to separate from me and into the arms of a true stranger, ever. I tried to ease myself away from her.
“Mama, I needs you!” She was holding her arms out, her face worried. I willed myself to be strong and to lug my own childhood baggage out of the way. “Hold you, hold you,” she said, pushing herself into my arms.
I bent down and she hugged me tight. Tanya looked on with a warm but clueless smile. This right here was the moment that I had spent the past two years—well, eight— running away from. The moment where my mother heart-strings got yanked from my ribcage and twanged by teensy fingers. You can do this, April. Normal people do this. Like every day. I knew that I could stay here until the end of time, hugging and reassuring Violet, and my four-year-old self standing on the dock of Little People’s Landing. It was a total mindfuck that, in order to restore sanity and become a better mother, I had to separate from my child, which actually made me feel like a worse mother.
But then I did it. I pulled out of the hug, overriding my primal instincts and Violet’s death grip. I looked into her eyes, past her just-forming tears, and saw the strong foundation I’d laid since the beginning. “I love you and you’re going to have so much fun with Tanya.” FUN.
Tanya picked up on the cue and took Violet’s hand, leading her to Stickertown. “Let’s see which princess we can find first.” But Violet wasn’t interested. And then came all the tears. And wails.
“Ma-ma. I needs you,” she cried, reaching out toward me as Tanya held her back, like a stage-four clinger.
I bit my lip as I ascended the stairs, waving to Violet and pretending to be confident. “I’m gonna be right up here, Baby Girl.” Jesus Violet, I’m just going upstairs.
She sobbed and begged for me to come back. Upstairs was too far. I knew that working moms would’ve had a field day with this pathetic spectacle, but it was monumental for me and I gritted my teeth, hating every heartbreaking second of it. I wanted it to stop, but needed it to work. I put my hands over my ears to block out Violet’s protesting cries, and sat on the edge of my bed. I could have chosen to get under the covers and contract into a tight ball for the next few hours, but there was no way I was going to spend good money to suff
er. And I needed to finish CeCe’s order. I pulled my hands away from my ears, cautiously. There were no screams, just the sound of Violet and Tanya eagerly searching for stickers downstairs.
Embarrassed, I sat down, flicked the sewing machine on, and carefully set an applique and shirt under the metal foot and needle. I began, again.
Hiring a babysitter had gone smoothly, overall. Tanya and Violet played together like two peers, except that one of the peers changed the other one’s diaper.
That week, I got a much-needed personal break from caretaking and I cranked out my boutique order without being rushed or having to multi-task. And some days, I even used Tanya-time to shower. The best of all worlds. What felt impossible without a babysitter was actually quite easy with one—a total game changer. Why hadn’t anyone told me? I hate myself.
Finally, I had a box of finished inventory, complete with ruby-red tissue paper and a branded sticker to seal it with. I knew CeCe would be pleased.
As Tanya and Violet laughed hysterically downstairs at Olaf sliding through a town on his belly, I slipped on my only pair of designer jeans, along with a black tank top, a teal cardigan, and trusty black ballet flats. I looked well-assembled, kind of like June. June lite.
I pulled out of the garage while blowing kisses to a happy, waving Violet in Tanya’s arms. I was so proud of my sweet, resilient girl.
As I rolled up in front of the Costa Mesa boutique, I noticed it was next to a vegan cupcake shop and a bone broth bar. Yes, a bone broth bar. The boutique was called “CeCe’s by the Sea” and it looked like a Red Lobster mated with a weed and crystal shop.
As I got out of the van, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Violet’s car seat was empty. Oh shit, where did I leave her? I did a double take, panicking. Did I leave her on top of the car? Why would I have put her on top of the car? And then I remembered that I was on a rare solo excursion. My pulse returned to normal.
A tall, red-haired woman stood behind the glass sales counter. She wore all white and her wrists glimmered with clanging gold and silver bangles. Her hair was short, yet teased so aggressively that her face looked like the center of the sun, orange wiry hairs radiating around it. She was hard to look at directly, and when I finally did sear my eyeballs to get an up-close glimpse, she looked like some kind of a shaman, with giant fake lips. When her eyes met mine, she did not smile.
“Um, hi, I’m the friend of Martha’s. With the shirts. Are you CeCe?”
“I’ve been expecting you. Let me see the shirts.”
No time for niceties.
I opened the box and CeCe grabbed the shirts without regard for my tissue and stickers. “Love. Love. Love,” she kept saying as she pulled out each shirt one by one, and then, “Loathe,” when she got to the squirrel. My heart sank. I should’ve gone with the horse instead of the squirrel. Damnit. Always go horse. She held up the squirrel shirt to examine it closer. “But someone else may love it.” She curled her top lip and worked her tongue extra hard as she spoke. The shirts sat in a heap on the counter. “Beautiful work. Let me write you a check for what we agreed on.”
I wanted to tell her we hadn’t agreed on anything yet, but I worried that she would try to lowball me if she knew I did the work without knowing a price. But before I could utter a word, she whipped out a checkbook, scribbled something, and firmly handed me a check for $300. The name section was blank. I was startled with how abrupt things felt, but $300 was more than I had made caretaking around the clock for nearly a decade, so I went with it.
“I hope your customers like them.” I motioned to my shirts.
“Oh they will, Dear. They will eat them up like flies on a fresh turd.”
I curbed my laugh. I couldn’t tell if CeCe knew how cuckoo she was or if this was some sort of test. I felt like I was in a Saturday Night Live sketch—the last one of the night that goes off the rails.
“Let me know if you’d like more,” I said.
“I already want more. Your shirts would be perfect for a pop-up shop I’m doing at an exquisite home in Newport Coast. Could you join us for a pop-up shop next week?” I could barely handle how her inflated lips contorted when she said “pop-up shop.” If Aaron had been with me, it would’ve been over. Our hysterics would have gotten us kicked out immediately.
I looked away from her mouth and tried to focus on what she was asking. “When is it, and what is it?”
“They’re a real hoot. I gather my favorite designers and the hostess invites everyone she knows to shop. There’s champagne and ahi. The pop-up shop ladies would just die over your stuff.” I didn’t miss that I had been included in CeCe’s favorite designers.
“Sounds, um, great. I have two kids, so I’d have to get childcare.”
“Get childcare, Honey. Don’t let those leeches suck your dreams.” All I could do was blink silently as she continued. “It’s next Thursday and I should tell you that you will make a lot of money there. For someone like you.” I guess my Lauren Conrad ballet flats weren’t fooling anyone. “These ladies have more money than Duggars have babies.” Then she waved her hand at me like she was shoo-ing away a fly. I felt like I’d been tazed by all the things that had just been spoken aloud by her. I hurried out the door.
Safe in the car, I held the $300 check. I knew it wasn’t a fortune, but I had earned it. CeCe left a bad taste in my mouth that no mint could ever cover, but she was currently my only ticket to freedom and sanity. I did the vague math on all the babysitting and take-out dinners “a lot of money” could buy. For that, I could put up with an unhinged, offensive shaman.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the comment she’d made about leeches sucking my dreams. I love those leeches, you bog woman. It was strange to be on the other side of the comment—to be one of the “working” moms. Yet it still stung because I wasn’t really a working mom either.
That night, after the kids had been fed, bathed, chased, sang to, rocked, kissed, and snuggled, Aaron sat on the couch watching Stranger Things while I messaged my village, asking who could pick Elliot up from school next Thursday so I could bask in ahi and champagne at the popup shop. Chloe came back with a quick yes. One down. Violet was covered after a quick text to Tanya who was even available to do two more days that week so I would have enough time to create sufficient stock. Aaron sat next to me, oblivious that having his childcare covered on the daily was an intrinsic right as a working father.
Next up: deciding on designs, sizes, and styles. No squirrels. I would have to put in a new rush order for blank t-shirts, something I hadn’t done in years—calling in a business order. It felt good to be back. My sewing time would have to be used wisely in the next week if I wanted to make enough shirts to capitalize on all that money that supposedly flowed like Duggar babies. I was shooting for fifty shirts. Fifty shirts could buy a lot of sanity.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Human Time Bombs
The week had flown by, like a Kindergarten half-day. I had hustled, knowing that more inventory meant more meals I didn’t have to make, more showers, and next, maybe even a house cleaner. My fingers were sticky from spray adhesive, and my neck and back ached from slumping over the sewing machine for hours on end, a part of the process I had forgotten. A massage had recently edged its way onto my wish list.
I had been so immersed in getting everything done for the pop-up shop that the time spent with my kids was actually a welcome break. I felt more playful and present when I was with them. Candyland and finger painting could be fun when they weren’t the only things you were doing. But something always had to give, and this time it was Aaron who wasn’t getting a piece of—or any direct-deposit hand jobs from—this new working me. I knew my pop-up shop sewing overload was temporary, and that Aaron, and our skanky reality TV, would all still be there once I got through Thursday, so I kept my head down and worked into the nights.
Late Wednesday night, the warm glow from my sewing lamp illuminated the fruits of my labor. Fifty-five shirts sat there, all sewn, tagged and n
icely folded. Goal exceeded.
I fell over onto the bed, my shoulders burning like when I nursed Elliot and Violet around the clock. I lay there, on top of my nest, looking like a frozen crime-scene victim. I stared up at the ceiling, concocting a plan in which I didn’t have to brush my teeth or go pee or turn the lights out before closing my eyes and falling asleep. Catheters needed to be more accessible to the public.
Just then, my phone dinged. It was Tanya. A late-night text from the babysitter was never good news.
I’m so sorry but I have a fever and a sore throat and I don’t think I should watch Violet tomorrow.
I sat straight up. This couldn’t be happening. And also, of course this was happening. “Not so fast with those plans, Ma’am,” the Motherhood Police were reminding me. I wanted to text back fuck fuck fuck fuck but instead I replied to Tanya with forced sympathy.
After all of my hard work and money spent on babysitting, I couldn’t fathom missing the pop-up and its monetary reward. But even more than that, I couldn’t imagine taking Violet with me and trying to do anything productive while she went on one of her giggling and running rampages in someone else’s lavish house, surely full of fragile, diamond-encrusted leopard figurines. I couldn’t do it. And I couldn’t ask Lucinda, who was out of town. I would have to ask for Aaron’s help.
“Tanya just cancelled for tomorrow. She’s sick,” I said as I descended the stairs.
“That sucks. I’m so sorry.” Aaron’s voice had the slight disconnection one can only have when the bad news doesn’t directly affect them.
“Can you work from home tomorrow with Violet? I really need your help.”
“I wish I could, but we have a huge meeting tomorrow about the pickle-art mishap.” He looked genuinely bummed that he couldn’t help, and I understood. Kind of.
“Fuuuuuck,” I said as I breathed out fire and walked into the kitchen. Here I was, once again, in the role of master juggler. Why the hell did I do this to myself again? My head was right. My heart is an idiot. It was late and I was weary. But I needed to make a plan. I knew what I had to do. And I hated it.
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