Class Mom

by Laurie Gelman

  “Not that I know of,” Garth says in answer to my birthday plans question, and I’m sure he’s right. He slows down the treadmill and looks at me thoughtfully.

  “Are you okay with just doing the store’s mini mudder?”

  “Totally okay.” I huff and puff. “I’m so out of shape, I’ll be lucky to get through it.”

  “I’m going to make sure you are more than ready.”

  * * *

  After Garth leaves, I sit down at the kitchen-counter office with ice on my groin to check my emails.

  I have a lot of responses, so I don’t even bother opening Sasha Lewicki’s. I don’t really need to know when she will be out of the office until.

  * * *

  To: JDixon

  From: AChang

  Date: 4/8

  Subject: Ye Olde Parent/Teacher Conference

  Jennifer,

  I have not seen you in a while. I assume you have recovered from your accident.

  Thank you for taking care of the conference schedule. Can you meet me for tea before pickup tomorrow? I have a new theory about you-know-who.

  Asami

  * * *

  Oh, for the love of God, woman, give it up. I’m going to have to shut her down. I email that I will meet her at Starbucks tomorrow at two. She needs a reality check.

  * * *

  To: JDixon

  From: KFancy

  Date: 4/8

  Subject: Ye Olde Parent/Teacher Conference

  Hi, Jen,

  Well, it’s lucky I didn’t plan a trip back to Manhattan, or I would have been in trouble again. My conference time is fine.

  By the way, I would love to participate in the mud run at your husband’s store. What a cute idea. It will be nice and easy after I do the real KC mud run the week before. Will you be doing it too?

  Thanks,

  Kim

  * * *

  I figured she would take the bait. Kim Fancy is just the incentive I need to truly rock the store’s mud run.

  * * *

  To: JDixon

  From MJBaton

  Date: 4/8

  Subject: Ye Olde Parent/Teacher Conference

  Dear Jen,

  Our conference time is great and Jean-Luc would like to participate in the mud run at your husband’s store. Would that be okay?

  Thanks,

  Mary Jo

  * * *

  Jean-Luc Baton wearing shorts and working out? Uh, yes, please. Then I open Shirleen Cobb’s response and it gives me the only good laugh I’ve had in days.

  * * *

  To: JDixon

  From: SCobb

  Date: 4/8

  Subject: Ye Olde Parent/Teacher Conference

  Jennifer,

  Conference time is fine. I would like to have helped you and your husband out with the mud run thingy but I have been training at Curves for about two months and I don’t want to do anything that might interfere with my progress.

  Shirleen

  * * *

  Much to my surprise, no one had a problem with their conference time and I filled all five spots for the mini mud run. Besides Kim and Jean-Luc, Hunter’s two moms signed up, and so did Ali Gordon.

  When I see her email, it reminds me that I owe Don one. The morning after Flirty-Text-Gate, he wrote me a very nice note explaining that he showed up at Garozzo’s to let me know that he thinks I’m awesome, but not in that way. Apparently he’s been trying to get back together with Ali and all his romantic focus has been on that. He said he really had wanted to meet me for coffee all those times but just to talk to me about her. He told me he loved our texting banter, but never thought of it going beyond that.

  * * *

  When I got your invitation for sex, I was surprised and flattered. I mean, really flattered. But I knew there was no way it was going to happen. I wanted to talk to you about it in person and not just leave you hanging alone at the restaurant. You’re a great girl and I was worried I had done something to lead you on. Now that I know the texts weren’t meant for me, it all makes sense.

  I hope you and Ron were able to laugh it off. He didn’t look too happy, but I’m sure once you explained it to him, he was fine. If not, I’d be happy to talk to him and set him straight.

  Cheers,

  Don

  * * *

  Is he kidding me? This is the guy who said he wanted to help me work out. If that’s not flirting, then someone hand me a dictionary. That’s such a guy’s way out. Oh, you didn’t want to have sex with me? Yeah, me either. It was just banter. Right, Don, hold on to that.

  I’m not going to lie. Finding out that my little crush was possibly only one-sided all along was a real punch in the boob. I know I said the texts didn’t mean anything and they were just for fun, but the sad truth is that, once again, Don Burgess is not interested in me. At least this time we’re friends—or we were friends; I’m not sure what we are now.

  I write Don back a note saying all is well and wasn’t that hilarious and blah blah blah. I wish him luck with Ali and say I’ll see him around.

  Good-bye, Suchafox! It was fun while it lasted.

  * * *

  April is my favorite month, and not just because it’s my birthday. I love the way the air smells of mud created by the ground thawing. It’s one of the first signs of spring and always makes me think of my childhood.

  I take a deep breath before I head into Starbucks for my Asami intervention. I spot her standing in line to order, so I walk up beside her and say, “Okay, what’s your new theory?”

  I kind of like the way my relationship with Asami works. There’s no preamble, no fake kisses and chitchat. We just get right down to it.

  “It’s Miss Ward,” Asami blurts.

  Oh, Jesus, this is going to be worse than I thought.

  “My treat today,” she continues. “What would you like?”

  “Wow, thanks. I’ll have a tall Peach Tranquility. I’ll go grab the couch for us.”

  I settle in and check my phone for messages, hoping for something from Ron, but no luck. He’s still being chilly. When Asami joins me, she places a giant cookie between us. Chocolate may be a no-no for me but I never say no to a chocolate chip cookie.

  “Help yourself,” she says as she takes off her sweater.

  Who is this woman? Or maybe this has been the real Asami all along and I just never saw it. I decide I need to be kind but firm about her crazy witch-hunt.

  “I have to say something to you and I hope you hear me,” I begin. “I really think you’re barking at the moon. I know it’s a bit of a mystery, who this Sasha Lewicki woman really is, but in the grander scheme of things, who cares? Is it hurting Suni in any way? Is it affecting the quality of your day-to-day life? Probably not, so why don’t you just drop it?”

  I silently give myself props for my nice little speech. I see that Asami’s frown has formed a small “v” on her forehead and her mouth is poised in an “o.” I take this moment to break off a bit of the cookie and pop it in my mouth, but find to my horror that it’s filled with raisins, not chocolate chips. There are few things in life more disappointing. I would spit it out if that was socially acceptable.

  Asami still hasn’t said anything, but she is looking at me.

  “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. I just think there are more important things to worry about.”

  She nods. “You’re right, there are. I’m not sure why I’m so focused on it.”

  “Well, it will definitely go down as one of the great mysteries of room 147,” I proclaim. “That and how Mary Jo Baton landed Jean-Luc for a husband.”

  She smiles at my little joke. I think there’s hope for Asami’s sense of humor after all.

  * * *

  I gratefully lower myself into bed and place a big bag of ice on my groin. It only bothers me after a long day like the one I just had. Usually Ron would want to fool around tonight, because, just like every man in the world, he thinks sex is the perfect gift to give
your wife on her birthday. But the way things have been, I’m really not sure. He was very sweet this morning when he and Max gave me breakfast in bed, but then I didn’t hear from him all day. It was actually fine. I was unexpectedly busy. The girls surprised me on FaceTime by singing the Beatles’ version of “Happy Birthday” with Travis on bass and Raj on tambourine. Later I had lunch with Nina, Peetsa, and Ravi at the place with the signs (Stu’s Diner), where we pigged out on homemade chili and Steph gave me a whole apple pie to take home. Stu’s only had one new sign—a small one hanging over the front door. It said,

  “If I Wanted to Listen to an Asshole, I’d Fart”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon getting my hair cut and blown out, and topped the day off having a really fun dinner with my folks and Max and Ron at Minsky’s. They have the best pizza in KC. Some might say Waldo’s is better, but we’re a Minsky’s family from way back. We always order the same thing—a Papa Minsky’s with pepperoni, Italian sausage, salami, and roasted red peppers. You don’t want to be sleeping with any of us on a Minsky’s night, let me tell you.

  So this is forty-eight. All things considered, I’ll take it over twenty-eight any day. Especially my twenty-eight, which saw me living with my parents and raising two small kids. As the great Billy Joel once said, “It’s some kind of miracle that I survived.” This is definitely my time to remember.

  22

  I wake up way before my seven a.m. alarm. I’m beyond excited, but before I jump out of bed I force myself to do my morning bed stretches and affirmations. This is something Garth made me start while I was injured. Here goes.

  “My mind and body are in perfect balance. I am unlimited.”

  Nice, right? Loving myself isn’t really up my alley, but I find this very empowering. It’s better than the mantra I used to have, which was “Get your fat ass out of bed.”

  I know today is just a store-sponsored mini mud run, but to me it’s the Olympic Decathlon and the Super Bowl rolled into one and placed in a large bag of chips. My nerves are crack-a-lacking. I’m going back to the scene of my crushing defeat—my complete and utter breakdown in the face of physical challenge. That was a bad bad day. The only thing that could have made it worse would have been shitting myself while trying to get over the wall.

  But today, that wall is mine. “My mind and body are in perfect balance. I am unlimited.”

  I hoist my fat ass out of bed and drag it to the shower. Max is still sleeping. I can only assume Ron is already at the store supervising the setup. I don’t have to be there until nine.

  God, I wish I had slept longer; I was up so late. I lean against the shower wall for support. As luck would have it, Ron and I chose last night to finally hash out Textgate. Things had certainly been lightening up between us, but we hadn’t had a real discussion about it. After I put Max to bed, I joined Ron in our bedroom and caught him reading something on my phone.

  “Is that my phone?” I tried not to sound too indignant, because we’ve always had an open-phone policy in our marriage. But seeing him scrolling without even asking kind of set me on edge.

  “Yeah, it is,” he answered without any guilt in his voice. “I was rereading those texts you had with Don.”

  Okay, so we’re doing this. I girded my loins and jumped in.

  “See anything you missed the first time around?” I asked.

  “Yeah, a lot. You guys were really chatting it up.”

  “Just about stupid stuff.” I walked over and sat on the bed beside him.

  “I can see that.” He continued to look at my phone and not me.

  I touched his arm. “Ron, I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “I still don’t understand why you felt the need to have such a back-and-forth with this guy. Am I not interesting enough?”

  I sighed. How could I say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” without sounding trite?

  “Sweetie, this is all on me. You are more than enough of everything I could possibly want in life. But according to my mother, I’m having a bit of a midlife crisis.”

  Finally Ron looked at me.

  “What’s the crisis?”

  “Uh, I’m forty-eight, my best years are behind me, and I’m going to be a grandmother.”

  Alarmed, he sat up. “What? Who’s pregnant?”

  “Well, no one yet, but it’s coming just like everything else.”

  “Jesus, Jen, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry. It’s just what I think about.”

  “What else do you think about?” He seemed leery of my answer.

  I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. Cripes, what don’t I think about?

  “I think about how I look just a little less attractive every day. I think that when I’m sixty, Max will just be finishing high school. I wonder if I should have had a career instead of a bunch of jobs. I wonder why you love me and when you might stop. I worry that I’m not a good enough wife, daughter, mother, and friend. And I worry that if this is it, this is my whole life, will it be enough?”

  There was a long pause, and then my husband said, “That’s it?”

  It took me a moment to realize he was joking. I started to belly-laugh. He lay down beside me.

  “So this is why you started flirting with an old boyfriend?”

  “He was never my boyfriend. But…” I was trying to nail down what had been driving me this whole time.

  “But … it made you feel young?”

  Ding ding ding! Ron for the win.

  “I guess in a way it did. I mean, he knew me before college, before kids … before you.”

  “Well, he knew the young you, but not the best you, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know if I would have liked seventeen-year-old Jen as much as forty-seven-year-old Jen.”

  “Forty-eight,” I corrected him.

  “Right, forty-eight. I’m sorry you’re having a midlife crisis about getting old, but you need to see yourself through our eyes.”

  “Our eyes?”

  “Mine and Max’s. We love you and think you’re amazing. That ski trip was no fun without you, and not just because no one made skillet tacos or us.”

  I started to say something, but Ron cut me off.

  “Let me finish. You are everything to us … to me. But if we aren’t enough for you, then that scares me.”

  I sat up on the bed. “You are! You are! I love my life with you guys and with the girls. It’s just hard getting older. I’m not the prettiest girl at the party anymore, and I need to adjust to that.”

  Ron sat up beside me and pulled me into his arms.

  “You will always be the prettiest girl at my party. Don’t ever doubt it.”

  Corny, right? But it was music to my ears, and the makeup sex really burst the dam of tension between us. I’m so glad we had it out. I just wish it hadn’t been the night before the mini mud run, because now I’m physically and mentally wiped.

  Out of the shower I grab my cell phone and check the weather. Sunny, with a high of 67 degrees: perfect.

  I put on a pair of Lululemon cropped yoga pants, my favorite workout bra, and one of the Fitting Room T-shirts Ron had made for the event. I run a brush through my hair and decide a ponytail will be my best bet.

  I’m humming the Rocky theme as I run down to the kitchen and whip up some scrambled egg on Ezekiel bread with ketchup—my breakfast of champions.

  It’s 7:30 and I’m ready to go. Shit. I need a distraction, so I go into Max’s bedroom and rumble around until he wakes up from the noise.

  “Hi, Mommy,” he says through a yawn.

  “Hey, buddy.” I curl up in his race-car bed with him and snuggle.

  “Is your run today?” he asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Are you going to win?”

  “I will win just by finishing the course.”

  He grabs my face so I’m looking right at him.

  “Mommy. Winning is winning.” He sounds like Ron.

  “No, sweetie, winning is doing your
best.” I pull him into a hug.

  “Want to hear my song about winning?”

  “Sure.” I stifle a yawn. “Lay it on me.”

  “Winning, winning, winning, winning, winning,” he sings softly, to the tune of absolutely nothing recognizable. I shut my eyes and sigh with happiness.

  “Mommy!”

  I open my eyes and something has changed. The light in the room is different, and Max smells like cheese.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” He goes over to his iPad Mini and opens it. “It’s eight-five-five.”

  “What the fu … dge.” I scramble off the bed. “Did I fall asleep?”

  “Yeah, when I was singing. So I went down and made my own breakfast without using the oven or the microwave.” He sounds so proud of himself.

  Boy, nothing good ever comes from me dozing off. I start pulling clothes out of the dresser and throwing them on his bed. “Sweetie, we have to get going. Can you get yourself dressed?”

  “But Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is on.”

  “Max, you knew you were going to miss it today. Please get dressed and meet me in the kitchen.”

  “I don’t feel like it.” He’s pouting and whining now.

  “Max, please! This is my big day. I need full cooperation. Lock and load, let’s go.” I start pulling his PJs off.

  “No! Stop it! Don’t! Hands are not for hitting!” he yells.

  “I’m not hitting you. I’m undressing you. Stop fussing around!” I’m inches from losing it. “What is wrong with you?”

  And as I say it, I know.