Keep Me Posted

by Lisa Beazley

  January 12 Cassie,

  WOW. I was not expecting that. You always were the rebel of the family. But really, it’s not so horrifying a crime. I’m more concerned that you mentioned you were depressed and felt like you couldn’t come to me anymore. That makes ME sad. I’m sorry you went through that rough patch alone. I would give anything to go back in time and be there for you. Thank you for that honest and real kickoff. I have a good feeling about this year. I feel like I should reciprocate, but alas—or maybe thank goodness—I have no major confessions to offer. When I really think about it, I realize we haven’t talked about much else other than the kids or Mom and Dad or Joe and Margie in the past, oh, seventeen years, so there probably is a lot you don’t know. But none of it seems important now. You rest easy, little sister. My admiration for you only grows. —Sid New York January 24 Sid, Thanks for that last letter. I feel good now that you know. Now, moving along. A helper!!! Woot-woot! (Or is it whoot-whoot?? That’s the first time in my life I’ve written that, but I think it’s warranted here.) I want details. This is like mommy porn for me. Send me a letter telling me—slowly—about everything she does for you and also what you are doing while she’s doing it (napping? reading a magazine? drinking your own beverage that doesn’t contain toddler backwash?). I’m not joking. Also, that is so messed up re. the way they are treated. I don’t get how that’s even allowed. Isn’t there some kind of union? I just remembered something. When the boys were about four months old and I had been back at work for a month, I used to watch TV during their two a.m. feed. I got into that show on Showtime with Chloë Sevigny about the Mormon polygamists, and I remember thinking, these people are genius! A few extra wives really come in handy with a house full of kids. It’s just good sense. We could have used an extra wife right about then (still could, actually). I would have gladly let her sleep with Leo. God knows I wasn’t. I fantasized about it for weeks—not the sex part, but the wife part, the extra set of hands to take care of the babies, cook, clean, all that. Now you have that, minus the husband sharing. xoxo, Cassie Singapore

  Feb 3 Cassie,

  I can’t get used to having a person here all the time. Her English is good, but there’s still something of a language barrier. I was telling Lulu that I saw a frog earlier, and Rose said, “You like the frog?” And Lulu clapped and smiled. And Rose looked at me and said, “You like I prepare for you, ma’am?” What? What was she thinking? That I wanted her to go spear a frog from around the koi pond and fry it up for dinner? And she mops the floor every single day. Which would have been great back before our furniture arrived and Lulu was eating off the floor like a puppy, but now it seems a bit excessive. I tell her to relax, but she’s totally uncomfortable unless she’s scrubbing or cooking something. She also keeps propping up Lulu’s dolls and teddy bears around the house, which I have mixed feelings about. On one hand, it’s funny to walk into the living room and have three teddy bears staring at you from the base of a lamp (and it’s sweet that she’s taking such care), but on the other hand, no, thanks! I mean, grown-ups live here, too. And just because I don’t have the refined New York tastes that you do doesn’t mean I’m cool with being surrounded by stuffed animals. The best part is that sometimes it feels like we live at a hotel—Lulu and I go to the pool, and when we come back, our beds are made and the bathrooms are spotless. Actually, scratch that—the best part is the on-call babysitting. I can go for a run or to a yoga class with no advance planning. I just tell Rose I’m going, and I go. I almost feel awful telling you this, but I even go grocery shopping alone. I’ve been letting her cook dinner for us every night, because I’m still so in awe of this whole thing. But I do want to reclaim the cooking at least partially at some point—which is going to be necessary if I don’t want my heart to explode. The woman has never met a food she can’t drown in vegetable oil. She went through a huge jug of it in one week! Everything—a chicken breast, broccoli, whatever—is basically deep-fried. Last night I showed her how to sauté vegetables without so much oil, but I can tell she feels awkward with me in the kitchen. If I do even the tiniest bit of tidying up, she seems mortified. And you should see her go pale when Adrian goes for the sponge or tries to put his plate in the dishwasher. She will drop what she’s doing and sprint toward him, practically yelling, “Sir! I do it, sir!” We have a guest room in our condo, and I figured she would sleep there. I even got it all ready for her. But she prefers the maid’s room in the back of the house. It has its own very small, very basic bathroom (a spigot on the wall and a toilet). Her room does have a window, but the room is so tiny that I had to buy a toddler’s bed at Ikea so that it could also fit a dresser. (The toddler bed isn’t so bad actually. I curled up on it in the store. Still, it just seems wrong.) On the bright side, our guest room is now ready for visitors. Okay—I feel completely obnoxious about this whole thing. But you asked for details. I’m going straight to oxfam.org to set up a regular donation to alleviate my white guilt. XO, Sid I did this only once, but I read that letter aloud to Leo, who hung on my every word. “And how much do they pay her?” “Six hundred a month I think is what she told me at Christmas.” “Holy crap. That’s less than what we paid our nanny in a week.” He was right. When I was working, we paid Wanda, a lovely Dominican woman who doted on the boys and never complained about lugging them up and down the stairs every day, $850 cash every Friday, wiping out almost all of my paycheck. We spent most of the rest of our evening fantasizing about having a person living in the back of our house, swooping in to help with the kids when we needed her. Since there was no back of our apartment, though, we supposed we could fit a small mattress on the platform we erected for storage that spanned the ceiling from the front door to the bathroom. She (or he!) would have to be a gymnast, we decided, tiny and limber so as to not require anything more than a rope or a little springboard to launch him – or herself back up to their tiny platform. We could ring a bell when we wanted our helper to come down to do some laundry or dishes. She’d cook exotic and nutritious meals on which we would dine with joy and civility around our family table. For the next few days, when one of us was doing the dishes, in what we imagined a Filipino accent to be, the other would start yelling, “Sir! I do it, sir!” Both of us did Internet searches for jobs in Singapore, e-mailing the other links. It was all we talked about. Leo came home one night and said, “Let’s leave the kids with the helper tonight and go out to dinner.” “Great idea. Now, where is that bell?” I said, looking around in jest. And then we both sighed and stared off into space, imagining the possibility. “In the old days families would just help each other. According to my mom, her parents never went outside of the family for help,” said Leo. “What are you saying? That we should call your uncle Sal and have him come watch the boys tonight?” “Yeah, right.” Leo laughed. “But seriously, it’s kind of sad that families don’t do that anymore—don’t you think? I mean, everyone trusts total strangers to practically raise their kids. Wanda spent fifty hours a week with these guys, and we found her on Craigslist.” “Wanda rules,” I interjected. “Don’t knock Wanda.” And then I teased Leo about turning into an old man who’d hold up his finger and trill, In my day . . . But in the back of my mind, privately, I returned to my old fantasy—now picturing Sid and me living in a huge house with our families, helping each other with the kids and the housework. It was a fun week for Leo and me, having a playful inside joke. But later, I felt a bit guilty for reading Sid’s letter to him. I doubt she would have minded, but I promised myself I wouldn’t violate her trust again. There was already something sacred about these missives. They couldn’t be forwarded or copied and pasted. I was the owner of a bespoke object, and I held that dear. CHAPTER FOUR

  Leo’s mom was coming over, so even though it was freezing, I sent Leo out with the boys to tire them out and pick up bagels and lox. I stayed home to clean the apartment and do some deep breathing exercises
while trying to focus on my husband’s positive attributes. I had a good enough relationship with my mother-in-law, as long as I wasn’t irritated with Leo at the time. But if I was even mildly annoyed with him, a visit from Mary Costa was all it took to send me over the edge.

  Of her four boys, Leo was Mary’s favorite. I’m not just saying that. She freely admits it; it’s even a running joke among the Costa brothers. He’d had some health problems as a child, which cemented their special bond and made him a quiet mama’s boy. She doted on him and he on her. At first, his close relationship with his mother was endearing and led me to think of him as a good egg. Of course I’d heard the jokes about watching out for men who had an extra-close relationship with their mother, but I’ve never trusted people who claimed to hate their parents or not be on speaking terms with a family member. Leo was the opposite, which made him seem extra trustworthy. Once, when the boys were just a few months old and I was deeply resentful of the amount of time he felt he was entitled to spend on the toilet, we’d had a silly fight about it minutes before Mary arrived. I complained that one bathroom session for him was more time than I’d spent using the toilet, showering, and grooming over the course of a week. His reply was, “I’m not stopping you. Go ahead. The bathroom’s right there.” I threw up my hands and continued to pick up the apartment. Twenty minutes later, Mary came in carrying a six-pack of Leo’s favorite beer, and even though it was only one in the afternoon, he opened one and started drinking it. I was nursing Joey in the chair, and Quinn was on the ground gnawing at his own feet when he began to cry. So Leo, bowels empty, showered, dressed, and rested, put down his Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout and picked up his own crying infant. Mary nearly threw him a parade. Meanwhile there’s me, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, slumped in the corner with a baby at my breast, empty water glass beside me, my irritation building by the second. I was parched but too proud to ask one of them to refill my glass, so I walked over to the fridge with Joey still attached to my breast and poured myself some water. My passive-aggressive water retrieval went completely unnoticed, and Mary used her baby-talk voice to say to Quinn, “Do you know how lucky you are that this guy is your dad?” Technically, I didn’t disagree, but to hear it from Mary at that moment filled me with contempt for my husband. I looked at his freshly shaven face and remembered that I’d always preferred scruffier guys, glanced at his RUN-DMC shirt, and thought, You haven’t listened to them in ten years, you poseur. Mary did have a sense of humor, so I could get away with saying, “The man picked up his own baby. Let’s not canonize him just yet.” She laughed and called me a riot and we moved on. I think she was as confrontation-averse as I was, and while the two of us did genuinely like each other, I believe we could have loved each other, had I been married to any of her sons except the anointed one. When Mary arrived that day, the boys were, as usual, thrilled. And rightfully so: She always brought candy or gifts—sometimes both, even though she saw them every other week. Today it was candy hearts and Spider-Man chocolates, in honor of Valentine’s Day. She also brought a tray of vegetable lasagna, which she set on the countertop right beside my suddenly conspicuously not-home-made (but still delicious) bagel-and-lox spread. Filling her in on what I regarded as Sid’s great fortune at having a helper proved to be a nonstarter conversation-wise. I gushed on and on while she made a feeble attempt to disguise her disapproval for someone who would require full-time help with matters of the home. New York Feb 13 Sid— I love it!! Rose sounds like a hoot! I’m so jealous. I want to move to Singapore now. Not only would I not have to spend every other Saturday morning frantically cleaning my apartment in anticipation of Mary Costa’s biweekly visit, but those visits would be MUCH less frequent. A girl can dream . . . Sometimes I think she wishes Leo never met me. I’m sure she would love nothing more than for him to be a bachelor forever, living at home with Mom. She is entertaining, I will say that—almost a caricature of an overbearing mother-in-law. I shouldn’t complain—no one gets along with her mother-in-law, right? What really annoys me is that she always makes me feel like an inferior homemaker (something I don’t, in fact, care about being a superior version of until she shows up). She raised four boys with a husband who—from what I’ve gathered—sat in his chair, watching sports and drinking beer. I imagine her racing about like an enthusiastic hotel manager, aiming to make everyone’s stay as pleasant as possible. Leo says the only time he remembers seeing her sit down was in the car. No chance Joey and Quinn will ever say that about me. Spending all day in the kitchen sounds awful to me. I’ve never felt as if I were wired for domestic pursuits. I get no satisfaction from cooking, cleaning, or organizing things. I blame the apartment for this—specifically, my kitchen, which is really more of a wet bar. Eyes closing—must sleep. Love you. —Cass Singapore

  Feb 28 Hi, Cassie,

  I’ve never had a mother-in-law, so I couldn’t tell you. Adrian doesn’t speak to his mother; I’m not entirely sure why. His dad seems like a nice guy, though I’ve only met him twice. Remember how close I was with Greg King’s family when we dated in high school? His mom would have been a great mother-in-law. We still meet for coffee every once in a while back in Ohio. Actually, Kenny’s mom was cool, too. I didn’t know her as well, but she was very sweet. I’ve often wondered if I should have gotten in touch with her about River. She probably doesn’t even know she has a grandson, but it seems wrong since Kenny cut off all ties before he even had a chance to meet River. Thank goodness Joe and Margie were such amazing grandparents. Hopefully he’s never missed having two sets. Meanwhile, having a helper has really shaken up my social calendar. For one, now I’ve got all these new mom friends inviting me to coffees and teas and lunches and tennis and bunco. (Bunco! What are we, retired?) This is such a different world. I can’t keep up, and I don’t really care to. So I’m finding myself playing matchmaker with the moms in my orbit. I’ll meet a Kiwi who lived in India and I’ll introduce her to the British-Indian woman who is planning a summer trip to New Zealand, and make my exit graciously. I’m almost ashamed to admit this, but the more international my friends become, the more I find myself lapsing into stereotypes. The British and the American women are the fanciest—wearing overly thought-out outfits, strategically highlighted hair, and perfect mani-pedis. The Aussies and the Kiwis are mostly unadorned and straightforward. French women, as expected, are chicly dressed, often smoking, and cool in demeanor. I haven’t quite figured out the rest. As for me, being the American gal that I am—pedicures have become an every-other-week ritual. I’m afraid I’m turning into a bit of a Stepford Wife. Needless to say, I’m itching to get up to a little mischief. Let me know if you have any ideas. When I go to someone’s home for a playdate or a coffee or dinner or whatever, we actually sit there across from each other and have a conversation, like in old movies and novels! I’m used to chatting while chopping vegetables or washing dishes, so it’s a little strange sitting across from someone you hardly know—more intimate in some ways, but in other ways, less. There’s a bond that forms over a sink, where the silences seem natural and the conversation is broken up with practical exchanges about where dishes go or what kind of detergent works best. A lot of the talk is gossip and salacious stories. Some of them are real doozies. Here’s the worst one: Claire Linden’s family (Dutch, if you’re keeping track) was going to Phuket for a long weekend. Her husband, Stefan, planned to meet them two days later. Claire and the kids go to the airport only to find that their seven p.m. flight is canceled. After booking a flight for the next morning, they return home and find Stefan and two of his colleagues having what she described as a “pool party with seven or eight Thai hookers”!!!!!! (Who knows if they were actually hookers, but that’s how the story goes!) Turns out Stefan is a real piece of work. And by “work” I mean “shit.” Do you know what he said to her? He told her, what does she expect—it’s like a smorgasbord out here. It sounds made-up, I know. Oh, here’s another one. An Amer
ican family moved to Singapore, into the house of an outgoing American family, and the first family’s helper stayed on to work for the next family. The wife and kids were out for the day and the husband is home. The helper finishes her morning cleaning and asks the husband, “What would you like me to do now, sir?” And he says, “Whatever you used to do for Bill, I guess.” So what does she do? Takes off her clothes and climbs into his bed! Apparently, he was mortified and shooed her out and made her get dressed. I have no idea if he told his wife or what became of the helper. There are dozens of stories that the old-timers seem to delight in telling newbies like me, just to watch our eyes pop, probably. Everything about this place is bizarre. I’ve vowed not to become one of those women who sits around and gossips, but with stories like these, it can be hard to resist. Most of the time I find it’s easier to hang out with the Filipinas, who are likely having the same conversations, only I can’t understand what they’re saying, so to me, they’re innocent. Anyway, Rose has four other helpers and their charges over for a playdate. I’ve got zucchini bread in the oven, so it smells divine right now—reminds me of Joe and Margie’s house. (All I need is Wheel of Fortune or Murder, She Wrote on the TV.) You should see the looks on the helpers’ faces when I offer them tea or coffee. But I’ve gotten a few of them to loosen up around me, and our place is becoming the go-to spot for rainy-day playdates, which is fine by me. I love having a full and busy house. I’m hoping to pick up a little Tagalog. I swear “Burt Bacharach” is a commonly used expression. I will let you know when I figure out what it means. Gotta go. Love you. —Sid PS—Here are a bunch of preposted airmail envelopes. Aren’t they cool-looking? I know you’re just trying to avoid the post office, but I don’t think you need a dozen stamps for every letter. The airmail envelopes were a godsend. I had been buying books of stamps from the postal truck that occasionally parks itself on Sixth Avenue and University. This sounds idiotic in retrospect, but I would put about ten stamps on every letter and cross my fingers that they were enough to get my letter to Singapore. Eventually, I would have Googled it and figured out the correct postage, but this was working for me, and the boys loved it. I’d let them each affix three stamps, guiding their hands with mine to get them on straight. I always went for the exotic ones: dinosaurs, superheroes, butterflies, whatever they had other than the standard American flag. After their six were on, I added three to five more, depending on how many were left, and then we’d walk to the mailbox. It was a ritual that we all enjoyed, and the boys kept track of whose turn it was to drop the letter in the box. Some nights I quickly wrote a letter to Sid just so the boys and I would have this small errand to accomplish in the morning. Once in a while we’d run into the postal worker collecting the mail from the box. This was less interesting than you’d think it would be for a couple of three-year-olds, who were invariably disappointed to have someone messing with their routine. I, too, was disconcerted by the lack of care she displayed when ushering the letters from the mailbox into her bin and then to the back of her truck. It was always the same woman, wearing shorts and worker boots with her unbuttoned, too-big uniform shirt over a tight white tank top. Earbuds in and wires dangling, phone clipped to her arm on one of those Nike running accessories, she was often deep in conversation. If things were getting interesting, she’d stop midchore and make an emphatic point, or listen intently, head nodding side to side while humming deeply, the box of letters just sitting there on the sidewalk. It was like seeing your diary lying there for anyone to scoop up and read. So we would wait vigilantly until the bin was in the truck and she was driving away. I silently congratulated myself for buying that scanner every time we stood guard over the mail transfer. At least I would have a copy if one of my letters got lost. They were becoming increasingly precious to me, and I loved reading back through them. I’d cringe to reread an awkward turn of phrase and delight over the clever bits. I also loved the sight of our writing on my screen, which felt artsy and retro in a way that comforted me. Sid would often draw little pictures in the margins, use all caps for emphasis, or write my name in puffy balloon letters. Many of her letters looked like the notes we’d exchanged in high school, a touching reminder that her youthful exuberance and inhibitions were alive and well. Two weeks later, when Quinn spilled chocolate milk on my open laptop, I felt the way I’d imagined I would if that postal worker ever really did let the mail fall victim to oncoming traffic, vomiting vagrants, runaway dogs, the wind, or any other destructive force that might show up at the corner of Hudson and Morton streets. I decided then that I needed another layer of protection. So that night I went to fishfood.com, the same host we’d used at the magazine for our private internal blog, and selected the basic template. I uploaded the scanned letters, organized them by date, locked the privacy settings, and patted myself on the back for having a plan B for my aging MacBook’s hard drive. I thought about how fun it would be to e-mail Sid a link at the end of the year, and spent an hour changing the background color, header fonts, and page organization. I wanted it to look just right—for the sight of it to give me as much joy as the letters themselves did. I felt important with my computer and my scanner and my process—a frivolous replacement for the career I missed so much. I had control over something, which was incredibly therapeutic. Listening to myself now, it kind of begs the question, why didn’t I become a mommy blogger like everyone else? The ironic answer is that I was way too private a person for that. CHAPTER FIVE