Adult Conversation

by Brandy Ferner

  “I didn’t mean to sleep that whole time. Sorry.”

  “You deserved it.”

  I pulled up in front of my own house, where our journey had begun, grateful that the neighborhood kids weren’t outside with water balloons and fart guns for my homecoming. We both got out of the car and hugged a long goodbye. I felt the power of what we had experienced together, which was much greater than anything that could’ve happened on the couch in her office, or even in a Costco parking lot. Our trip had been therapy in itself. Life was savage.

  I grasped the shiny brass handle to my front door, not fooling myself, knowing exactly what I would return to. And I wasn’t wrong. The house was a wreck, with the same messy laundry baskets full of indistinguishable clean or dirty clothes in the same spot as when I had left them, the usual smattering of snack bowls, miles of Fruit by the Foot wax paper, and the TV screen showing Netflix’s judgmental question, “Still watching?” Re-entry was hard and fast, and kids weren’t even in the picture yet, until the sound of giggles and splashes echoed from upstairs. I wanted to be back in Vegas and also right where I was at home, all at once. The eternal rub of motherhood: wanting to be present and also not.

  “Ma-ma!” Violet squealed.

  “Mom!” Elliot called.

  Their sweet voices snapped me back into the moment. I came upstairs to find Violet and Elliot in the bathtub, both standing up to hug me, their wet eyelashes glistening.

  “Mom, where were you?” Elliot asked.

  “Helping a friend.”

  “With what? Where’d you go? What were you doing? I smell gummy bears,” he pressed.

  “I brought you guys a surprise,” I sang, as a distraction. He grabbed his towel and hurried out of the tub, kissing me as he flew past.

  Violet reached out her wet arms. “Owl towel,” she said, referencing her yellow hooded towel with owl eyes. I wrapped her up in it and held her close.

  “There’s something for you too, Violet!” Elliot yelled from downstairs, having gone through my bag like a TSA inspector, except a thousand times faster. Hopefully he hadn’t found the rest of the Junebugs.

  Violet wriggled away from me and ran downstairs with the hood still on her head—her owl towel floating behind her bare butt like a cape.

  I turned to Aaron who was standing just outside the doorway. He looked spent—fractured, even. I was unsure if his shattering had come directly from my desertion, or from having to wake up early with kids, alone, entertaining and feeding them all damn day. He pulled me into his chest and hugged me tightly.

  “I missed you so much,” he said, kissing the top of my head like the grey-haired man had done to the lovely lady shooter, in what felt like another world.

  I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him on the lips, tears falling down my cheeks.

  “What happened to you?” he asked, wiping away the wetness with his fingers. I couldn’t find words yet to capture all I’d witnessed, so I burrowed myself back into him, feeling loved.

  I’d been loved by my children for close to a decade, and I’d been loved by Aaron for double that. Their love for me was the only thing that wasn’t fleeting in my disorganized life as a wife, mother, and daughter. I had intimately walked with June through the wreckage of a broken, abusive marriage and there were no similarities between that and this. Also, Aaron had to do better. For me. For us. The frenzied framework of modern parenthood wasn’t going to change, so we had to—he had to—if we wanted to survive it, together. Yes, he needed to more equally share in the labor of our little family—and I would be starting that conversation right after I ate a meal that didn’t come in a chew tin—but there was something else.

  I looked up at the green-eyed man. “I need your help. And I need you to notice when I need your help. Before it’s too late.”

  “I get that now. But how will I know?” He was being sincere, not a dick.

  “Remember A.B.?”

  “Yeah, I think I married her.”

  “When you can no longer find her in me, go get her and bring her back. She gets lost in motherhood.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I believed him. Enveloped in his arms, safe and understood, I wanted to take this feeling and bottle it. Free of resentment, tangled emotions, and flagrant dad privilege, it was just like the old days, before we’d had kids. But I felt the approaching demands and minutia of parenting waiting to wear me down again. The rollercoaster of cryptic fevers and spilled bubble solution would try to undo me. I could bet on it. And I would likely need another getaway by next weekend. Maybe even tomorrow.

  “I need another escape to look forward to. And sleep. I need to sleep.” I suddenly remembered. “Sleeping in is my sex.”

  “What does that—”

  “Mom, you got me an ATM machine?!” Elliot yelled.

  “I’ll explain later,” I said to Aaron, taking his hand in mine and walking downstairs. “It’s called a slot machine, Elliot. It’s a game.”

  Aaron fished coins out of a change bowl for Elliot, while Violet did reckless somersaults on the couch with her new monkey. Elliot put the coins in the slot machine and pulled the lever.

  “Mom, look, I got three cherries!!” he said jumping up and down, the coins clanging in the metal tray.

  Next up: craps.

  Aaron and I lay in bed early that night, phones far away and legs intertwined under the covers. It all felt simple again. The morning would surely change that. But at least I was looking forward to sleeping in. It was small, but it was something.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I imagined writing this meaningful section while sitting alone, with a full teacup nearby, somewhere with a breathtaking view so I could really reflect on the bounty of generosity I’ve received, as I breathed in the fresh jasmine, or whatever. But as fate would have it, I’m at home because kids and summer, and my entire family is within throwing distance of me—one on an Xbox, one asking how to spell “sprinkles,” and the other one eating toast loudly. It’s sort of poetic, isn’t it?

  Yeah, I didn’t think so either.

  Thank you to She Writes, a truly groundbreaking indie press who believed in me, my voice, and this project. Brooke Warner, you are an inspiration. To my She Writes support team, Samantha Strom and the rest, thank you for putting up with my detailed (cough neurotic cough) emails and revisions.

  Thank you to my amazing publicists, Marissa DeCuir, Ellen Whitfield, and the entire JKS family. Marissa, thank you for crying at happy things as much as I do, and for referring to me as your Jenny Lawson, even though I don’t come close. And Ellen, from day one, working with you felt like I was working with a dear friend. Thank you for that.

  A very special thank you to Marnye Young and my stellar audiobook team at Audio Sorceress, whom I have so much respect for, especially after going on the self-loathing (and fun!) ride that was narrating my own audio-book. If you’d like to hear me attempt Australian and French accents, along with numerous other voices while reading every single word in this book—check out the audiobook.

  Much appreciation to my friends who consensually, and non-consensually, listened to me talk for years about this formerly intangible child of mine. Eternal love and thanks to Mary Becker, Clare Burley, Jeanine Tiemeyer, Chloe Myers, Valerie Farino, Becky Leonard, Mari Rockwood, Amanda Cagle, Jaime McNitt, Danielle VanGundy, Edith Presler, Lauren Flanagan, Michael Blash, and everyone I left out, which will surely hit me after publication. Just write your name in here: Thanks to my best friend in the world, __________________. Now we’re good. Extra thanks to Jennifer Gagliardi who not only let me download the book’s entire plot into her while we ate breakfast one morning, but also for showing up as my official photographer.

  Thank you to Pam England, Virginia Bobro, Britta Bushnell, and the entire Birthing From Within family who have always been so supportive of me, even though I wasn’t as into yurts, kale, and rituals as the rest of you. You completely changed my lens and taught me what sisterhood (b
arf, I know, sorry) really was, and you’re one of the reasons I try so hard to create it for others.

  Thank you to a badass group of writers whom I didn’t know I needed in my life like one needs oxygen—both Pescadero crews. It wasn’t until I met you all that I finally settled into my writer self. I came for the writing instruction, but I stayed for your vulnerability, humanity, top-notch humor, and Slayer weed. I don’t fully get how knowing people for only a handful of days can bond you to them for life, but it fucking can. A special nod to Shaheera Huggins for her steadfast support and willingness to mail my edited manuscript back to me all the way from Australia. Am I the only one who feels paralyzed by the idea of international mailing?

  Many thanks to the queen of this Pescadero crew, Janelle Hanchett. Thank you, Janelle, for answering eager messages from a blossoming writer who was desperate for guidance. Your no-bullshit attitude, mentorship, and editing of this book taught me more about the craft of writing than any college English class.

  Thank you to the others whose expertise graces these pages: Stephanie Rayburn, for your laser-focused edits and spelling catches, and to Nicole Frail, for your feedback, edits, and validation, as well as introducing me to my agent extraordinaire, Joseph Perry. Joe, you made me believe in agents again. And men.

  To my Adult Conversation readers and podcast listeners, thank you for laughing with (at) me. Thank you for showing up for and supporting my rants, videos, podcasts, and the detailed Korean spa recounting. An extra special thanks to the heroes who financially support me and my endeavors via Patreon. I would take a bullet for you (rubber riot bullet, but it’s still a bullet). To every last one of you in my Adult Conversation world, you make me feel less alone in this thing, which I hope makes you feel less alone in this thing. Now let’s all go to the mall and get BFF necklaces together.

  To my mom and dad, who are surely questioning their parenting choices—namely not having me evaluated by the school counselor before it was too late—thank you for doing just the right amount of right that I find myself a moderately functional adult, and now look at me, authoring a book. Also, thank you for doing just the right amount of wrong to give me lots of material to pull from. Seriously, you guys gave me so much good that I can never repay you. Thank you for believing in me.

  And to my mother-in-law who defies all villainous labels, thank you for always supporting my harebrained projects (including this one), and for so frequently stepping in so I could step out. I was the lucky one when I inherited you.

  This book had two doulas. Jessica Chapman and Kathie Neff held the cold washcloth to my hot head from the beginning of an idea to the moment I screamed and finally birthed this thing into the world. Thank you, Jessica, for being the same person as me, for leaving me messages sobbing because parts of the book hit you so deeply, and for responding to every single anxious message I left you about the book’s story, a character, or a line of dialogue. You are this book’s co-parent. And to the other co-parent, Kathie, thank you for keeping me on track with your supportive words, nudges, and masterful edits, and for continually begging for the next chapter while I wrote the damn thing. I will never understand what I did to deserve your friendship and loyalty, but I’m eternally grateful for it. Most importantly, you owe the world a book of your own. I gave you a cash advance and I expect to see a return on that. Don’t make me sue you.

  Of course, a bear hug of a thank you to my kids, August and June, without whom this book would never exist. Thank you for being who you are, bullshit and all, and thank you for loving me, bullshit and all. We have a pretty amazing thing going and I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else but you two. Wub.

  If you want to see how strong your marriage is, write a book like this and then ask your writer husband to edit it. Lucky for us, Matt, ours passed the test (as of publication)! You have always been by my side, making me laugh, and making me feel supremely loved. In addition, you taught me how to write a book. Thank you for reading my pages on those late nights when the last thing you wanted to do was read one more word. Thank you for trying your best to be gentle with feedback. And thank you for talking me off the ledge when I nearly went into cardiac arrest after I read my shitty first draft. (Side note: thank you, Anne Lamott, for everything you’ve ever written.) My inner feminist is reluctant to admit it, Matt, but this book wouldn’t have been possible without your support, cheerleading, sacrifices, and stellar parenting. Thank you for everything, always.

  Lastly, thank you to Naomi Stadlen and her book, What Mothers Do: Especially When It Looks Like Nothing. Back in 2007, while trapped in a parked car with a sleeping infant who would only nap after a long drive, I read Stadlen’s words and, for the first time as a mother, I felt truly seen. Her book made me understand things I was too sleep-deprived to articulate myself, including that I wasn’t crazy. Motherhood was. It’s wild to think that here I am, thirteen years later, hoping to give the same to other moms.

  Also, it appears I need a restraining order against “Circle of Life.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Credit: Jen Gagliardi

  BRANDY FERNER is a mother, wife, and the creator of the Adult Conversation podcast, social media pages, and blog. Her writing has been featured in Good Morning America, and at The New York Times, The Huffington Post, Romper, CafeMom, and elsewhere. In addition to writing and fulfilling her kids’ endless snack requests, she spent the past decade working as a doula, childbirth educator, and birth trauma mentor, ushering clients through the intense transition into motherhood. The insight gained from watching moms crack wide open—literally and figuratively—and her own experience as an independent woman who suddenly traded autonomy for snuggles, led her to say out loud the things that modern mothers are thinking. Sometimes it’s serious, sometimes it’s comedic, but it’s always honest. She currently lives in Southern California, and her love language is sleep.

  SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS

  She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere.

  Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.

  Play for Me by Céline Keating. $16.95, 978-1-63152-972-6. Middle-aged Lily impulsively joins a touring folk-rock band, leaving her job and marriage behind in an attempt to find a second chance at life, passion, and art.

  Wishful Thinking by Kamy Wicoff. $16.95, 978-1-63152-976-4. A divorced mother of two gets an app on her phone that lets her be in more than one place at the same time, and quickly goes from zero to hero in her personal and professional life—but at what cost?

  American Family by Catherine Marshall-Smith. $16.95, 978-1631521638. Partners Richard and Michael, recovering alcoholics, struggle to gain custody of their Richard’s biological daughter from her grandparents after her mother’s death only to discover they—and she—are fundamentalist Christians.

  In the Heart of Texas by Ginger McKnight-Chavers. $16.95, 978-1-63152-159-1. After spicy, forty-something soap star Jo Randolph manages in twenty-four hours to burn all her bridges in Hollywood, along with her director/boyfriend’s beach house, she spends a crazy summer back in her West Texas hometown— and it makes her question whether her life in the limelight is worth reclaiming.

  Warming Up by Mary Hutchings Reed. $16.95, 978-1-938314-05-6. Unemployed and depressed former musical actress Cecilia Morrison decides to start therapy, hoping it will get her out of her slump—but ultimately it’s a teen who cons her out of sixty bucks, not her analyst, who changes her life.

  A Tight Grip: A Novel about Golf, Love Affairs, and Women of a Certain Age by Kay Rae Chomic. $16.95, 978-1-938314-76-6. As forty-six-year-old golfer Jane “Par” Parker prepares for her next tournament, she experiences a chain of events that force her to reevaluate her life.

 

 

 
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