Well, there is talking. That part is very nice. I get about ten minutes every day to feel like we are an actual family. We do a version of thumbs up, thumbs down, in which we tell each other our favorite part of our day and our least favorite part. For example, today I learned that Megan hates her new skirts and wishes the school would allow free dress days on Fridays, a policy a few other private schools have recently adopted. Which led to a discussion on freedom of expression and freedom of speech, which was interesting. And I learned that Malika wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up, provided that she doesn’t have to give shots to dogs or clean up their poop. (Note to self: make sure we don’t get a dog.) Finally, I learned that Jason needs me to pick up his tuxedo tomorrow.
Of course he does.
That was his thumbs down. His thumbs up was that he gets to marry me on Saturday.
Big happy face. He sure is cute tonight.
“Wanna play Rock Band, Daddy?” Malika asks her father right after dinner.
“Okay,” Jason says, standing up from the table, “but only for a little bit.”
“Yay!!” the girls yell excitedly, before bolting out of their seats and running to the living room. Jason stands up, walks to my seat, and leans down to give me a soft kiss on the lips.
“Are you up for a video game?” he asks me.
I smile at him sweetly. “Hi! My name is Nic, and I’ll be your fiancée today.”
Jason laughs. “Are you going to try and get some work done?”
“Probably,” I lie. (In reality, I will most likely head on over to my computer, stare at a blank screen for ten minutes, then hit Facebook, latimes.com, wwtdd.com, and the Web site that shows my favorite daily comics.)
“All right,” Jason says, smiling and giving me another kiss.
As he heads over to the living room, I gaze at the wreckage of tonight’s meal and sigh. Dirty plates, uncleared, plus dirty serving spoons and empty cartons of pad see ew, pepper and garlic shrimp, and chicken panang.
I know this is my fault: I have gotten into the habit of clearing the table by myself. At first, I did it because I wanted Jason’s night to go smoothly. We were still in our early stages of dating, back when the girls were only here part-time. I didn’t want him wasting precious daddy time cleaning. So cleaning up was my way of quietly helping him get all he could out of what little time he got with them.
But now the girls are here most of the time. And I find myself quietly resenting them for being so messy. It’s not something I would ever say aloud. I don’t want to be the wicked stepmother or the imperfect wife. I like my role as the cool “bonus mom,” as they like to call me. And I know that Jason does appreciate how effortlessly the house seems to run these days. And he is working, and I’m not, blah, blah, blah.…
And yet … I don’t know … I’m starting to feel unappreciated.
I yell from the dining room table, “Before you guys start, can everyone please clear their plates so that I can begin cleaning up and winding down for the night?”
I can hear Rock Band’s opening blare from the T.V., but I hear no children coming toward me. Nor do I hear my soon-to-be husband. I walk into the living room and yell, “Can everyone…”
But then I stop. Megan is sitting at the drums, Jason is on fake guitar, and Malika is standing in front of the T.V. screen with her microphone. She turns to me. “Hey Nic, can you please come play bass?”
“No, honey. I just want to—”
“Please…” she begs, giving me the desperate puppy eyes.
What grown-up can resist the desperate puppy eyes?
I absolutely hate video games, but I seat myself on our plushy red couch, grab the pretend bass, and get ready to jam.
Three songs in, my fingers are cramped, and I already have a headache. I love Malika, and she is a gorgeous girl. But let us just say that she does not have a voice to match her looks. It’s a good thing she wants to become a vet, because her growing up to be a mezzo soprano is about as likely as my growing up to be a gymnast.
I excuse myself, and head back to the dining room to clean up.
Cleaning is a little like good newspaper reporting: if done well, it is invisible. A good article focuses on the subject, not the writing. A clean kitchen focuses on the beauty of the granite countertops, not the wife being taken for granite. (Little joke there. Not making me feel better.)
As I rinse off the dishes, our home phone rings. I walk over to the phone and check the caller ID to see it is Mel. I pick up. “You know, there are some advantages to being single,” I tell her without so much as a “Hello.”
There’s a pause on her end before she asks, “Like what?”
“For one thing, if you clean your house at night, and you go to bed … when you wake up, it’s still clean.”
Another pause. “Yeah. That’s true, I guess,” Mel concedes.
“And you get a first kiss. I’ll miss those,” I think aloud as I rinse off a large serving spoon and put it in the dishwasher. “First glance, first touch, first heated make-out session where sex isn’t just expected…”
“I’m getting married!” Mel practically screeches to me over the phone.
Whuh?
“Oh my God! Honey—that’s great!” I force myself to say in the cheeriest voice possible. Even though the poor girl has been hysterically crying about Fred’s affair since Saturday. “So the cake charm was wrong,” I add. “Good news for the rest of us.”
“Well no,” Mel tells me. “Technically, it was right, because Ginger got engaged first. But it’s also right about the red hot chili pepper! He bought me flowers, took me to the Water Grill, and is out at the store right now buying a bottle of Cristal!”
“Wait, you’re not with him?” I ask her, confused.
“No! I wanted to take a few minutes to call my best girls. So, will you be my maid—no wait, matron—of honor?”
The three of us made a deal years ago: since we all love each other equally, we’d take turns being the bride, maid of honor, and bridesmaid. Seema is my maid of honor, I am going to be Mel’s maid of honor, and Mel will be Seema’s maid of honor. “I can’t wait!” I say, filling my sentence with forced glee. “So, have you set a wedding date yet?”
“No,” Mel says excitedly. “I need to see if my parents will cover any of it, and if they want it in Oregon, things like that. But I already know that I want my colors to be black and white!”
Ick. I’ll have to work on her about that. Actually, there’s a lot of stuff I need to work on her about. For example, her choice of groom. Or, as I plan to refer to him from now on: Fuckface.
Mel continues, “Fred and I don’t want to steal your thunder, so we’re going to wait to announce the engagement until after you leave for your honeymoon.”
My honeymoon. There’s a loaded word these days. I haven’t told anyone about my change of honeymoon plans yet. And now is definitely not the time.
“Honey, that’s such good news!” I lie. “Don’t worry about stealing our thunder. Shout it from the rooftops!”
I could not sound more fake. Hopefully, she’s so obliviously happy, she won’t notice.
My phone beeps. “That’s my other line,” I say. “Can you hold on one sec, and I’ll get them off?”
“No, no. I should go anyway,” Mel tells me happily. “I have so many more people I need to call. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“And Nic?” Mel says, suddenly striking a more serious tone.
“Yeah?”
“I really want to thank you for not saying anything bad about Fred these past few days. I know what he did looks really bad on the outside, and it would have been so easy to condemn him. Your not judging him or me has made me feel so loved and accepted. And it … well, it just means a lot to me.”
Well, I guess I can’t say anything now. “No problem,” I tell her. “I love you very much. You know that.”
“I love you too,” Mel says. “Fred’s home. I’ll call you tomorr
ow.”
“Okay, have a wonderful rest of the night.”
I hang up the phone and click over to the other line. “Hello.”
Seema opens with, “What the fuck?”
“I know! Right?!” I concur. “Did you tell her what you really thought?”
“Scott says I’m not allowed to,” Seema tells me. “The phone rang, and I let the machine pick up. When Mel screamed her news into the machine, I ran to the phone to pick up and start shouting, ‘Wrong!’ But Scott wouldn’t let me answer. He says I can’t say anything now, and that their relationship will either blow up on its own or there’s nothing we can do about it … Did you tell her?”
“No,” I admit. “I couldn’t figure out how to work ‘You’re making the second biggest mistake of your life’ into the conversation without looking unsupportive.”
“Second biggest mistake?” Seema repeats.
“Her biggest mistake would be if she breeds with him,” I reason.
“Indeed,” Seema agrees. Her mouth sounds full as she says, “I thought I’d open with, ‘How can you even think about marrying Fuckface?’ ”
“Jinx! That’s my new name for him too. What are you eating?”
“I’m sublimating my rage with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s while Scott cooks us dinner. What are you having?”
“Oooohhhh.… Good idea,” I say, opening the freezer door and pulling out a box of Trader Joe’s vanilla bon bons, which are these delicious little bite-size ice cream cakelets covered in dark chocolate. They are heaven in a box, and just the thought of popping one in my mouth makes me feel better.
I think for a moment, then reluctantly put them back into the freezer. “Wait no, I have to fit into my dress on Saturday. Anyway, I think rage is a little strong. She’s old enough to make her own choices.…”
“I’m not sublimating my rage over Mel. I’m sublimating over Scott.”
“Wait. Why?”
Seema’s mouth is even more stuffed as she says, “Because he’s having sex, and not with me.”
I’m confused. “Right now?”
“No, not right now,” Seema tells me like I’m an idiot. “He recently had sex with Sherri. Remember that awful—”
“I remember.”
“Yeah, well, apparently she called him a few weeks ago for revenge sex. Only he doesn’t even realize it’s revenge sex, and it was meaningless to him, so she gets to have him instead of me. But even worse, he just told me she was, and I quote, ‘Before Britney.’ ”
“Wait. There’s a Britney? Who’s Britney?”
“Um girl I ate … Oo are so uggy…”
“Your mouth is full, I can’t understand you,” I tell Seema.
I hear Seema swallow. “Sorry.” Then she lowers her voice and clarifies, “Some girl I hate. You are so lucky. I mean because you’re getting married Saturday.”
I hear the dryer buzz, alerting me that it’s done with my latest load of darks. Oh goodie—more clothes to fold. Before I can say anything else, Seema says, “Scott’s yelling for me. Dinner’s ready. Gotta go. Love you.”
“Okay, love you too,” I tell her. “Good luck tonight.”
“Schyeah right.”
Seema hangs up.
I look back down at the dishes and decide I’ve had enough for the night.
I am exhausted. I’ve had a hard day. Maybe not the way I used to have a hard day when I was a reporter, but a hard day nonetheless. I deserve a little treat. I return to the freezer and take out the bon bons.
The box has already been opened.
Dammit! I just bought them yesterday.
I pull the plastic container that houses my goodies out of the box, my gut telling me that though there should be twelve inside, I’ll be lucky if I find six.
One.
I sigh. Why would anyone leave only one piece and stick it back in the freezer to get my hopes up?
I pop it into my mouth. I think about going out to the living room to loudly and derisively ask who ate most of my ice cream, but then that strikes me as a bad message for the girls about sharing. I should be able to share my ice cream without the hissy fit currently playing in my head. I’m being petty. Next time I will know to buy two boxes of bon bons. Or seven boxes.
Yes—seven would be better.
I toss the empty box into the trash, and head upstairs.
I just need five minutes of quiet. I pass Jason and the girls playing “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” in the living room, then quickly and stealthily walk upstairs to our bedroom, shut the door, and collapse in a heap on our bed.
Man, what an exhausting day. I had no idea motherhood was this tiring back when I thought it was temporary. When I look at all of the other families around me, the kids always seem so well groomed and cheerful. And no one ever seems tired or overwhelmed. But, I mean, there have to be some mothers out there who are just faking it, who are just as clueless about this whole parenthood thing as me, right? Even the ones who have had the kids since birth must feel overworked and underappreciated occasionally, right?
Right????
Clearly, I’m lazy. Everyone else manages to raise their kids without the use of Diet Monster drinks and venti lattes. What’s wrong with me?
Shit. I can hear Jason coming up the stairs. No, no, no. I have known that man for over a year, and yet I still cannot get across to him that when I head upstairs and CLOSE the door, it means I need a break. I need silence. I need to hear myself think.
I shut my eyes tight and pretend I’m asleep.
Jason walks in and immediately begins droning on about his team. “If Rabinovitz starts drawing fouls toward the end of the games, that might help us. He can be like a buzzing little flea, annoying the other player on defense so much that they foul him. But his free throws have got to get better. I swear, I got the kid just shooting free throws two hours a day now, and he’s just not improving enough, you know?”
What? Were we having this conversation earlier, without my knowledge? Is he asking my opinion about something?
I say nothing, keep my eyes closed, and hope he’ll pick up on the most obvious of clues. I mean, isn’t it blatantly apparent that if someone leaves the room you’re in, shuts the door of another room, and closes their eyes, they might want some privacy?
Jason looks down at me. “Move,” he says in a playful voice.
I open my eyes and look over at him. “Why?”
“That’s my spot,” he says cheerfully.
“It’s your spot when we’re sleeping. It’s my spot now.”
Jason gently pushes me while saying in his cutest voice, “Come on. Move. I want to spoon.”
I sigh, but move over. I love that he loves to spoon with me so much. Just not right now. Right now, I want a few minutes to myself.
Jason climbs in behind me. His knees touch the backs of my knees, and his right arm donuts around my stomach. This would be nice if the sports monologue didn’t continue. “Now Johnson is a great free-thrower, but we prefer that he be resting toward the end of the game. Plus that he was in foul trouble way too much toward the end of post season.…”
Now I hear the pitter pounding of five-year-old feet on the steps. Malika has realized her daddy has left the room and has come to find him. She bursts through the door. (Five-year-olds never knock. It’s in the handbook.) “What are you doing, Daddy?”
“I’m cuddling with Nic,” Jason tells her.
“I’m famous for my cuddling!” Malika yells gleefully, running to the bed, hurling herself up into the air, and landing with a thud on my stomach. She interrupts Jason’s insanely boring monologue to begin one of her own. “Wanna know what happened on iCarly?”
I want to say, “No. I do not have the slightest bit of interest in iCarly. I love you, but please be quiet.” Of course, the question is rhetorical, because Malika continues before I can answer. “Sam and Freddie kiss. But they don’t want Carly to know, so they…”
“What’s everyone doing in here?” Megan asks in her I’m so ov
er you voice.
“We’re cuddling,” Malika tells her happily, then gives me a big hug.
“I thought we were playing Rock Band,” Megan complains.
“Come on girl. Since when don’t you like family bonding time?” her father asks.
Megan sighs heavily with tween disapproval but climbs into bed with the pack anyway. She then climbs over me to get the remote on the nightstand, and flips on the TV.
Oh good—High School Musical 17. I was afraid I’d missed that one.
If everyone wasn’t so happy with this family moment, I would hide in the bathroom. Except that I found out just last week that the bathroom doesn’t lend itself to privacy any better than my bedroom. It leads to Malika walking in and happily chatting with me while I am in the shower.
As the girls move to the foot of the bed to watch TV, I watch Jason turn to me and smile. I smile back.
Jason gives me a gentle kiss on my cheek, then leans over and whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to marry you.”
I smile. I love him so much.
Maybe even enough to have his baby.
So I can go hide in her crib.
Thirteen
Melissa
The sex was perfect. Everything a girl would expect it to be on the night she gets engaged: romantic, sexy, fun.
And the romance beforehand was perfect. Fred was absolutely amazing, from the start of the evening until its delicious conclusion. I hung up with Nic just as he was pulling into the driveway. Not only did he bring home Cristal champagne, but while he was at Gelson’s he also picked up my favorite Vosges dark chocolate candy bar (the one with bacon—don’t judge) and a stack of bridal magazines: Bridal Guide, Brides, Martha Stewart Weddings! We fooled around the first time, then sipped our champagne in bed, naked, as we leafed through the magazines and shared our opinions on dresses, cake designs, and china patterns.
For the first time in our relationship, I was able to tell him all of the things I had dreamed about for our wedding: the colors, the style, the kind of china I wanted to register for. And no matter what I told him, he seemed charmed by my choices and amenable to all of them.
There's Cake in My Future Page 9
