Blindsided

by Shey Stahl

  With the end of September approaching and the first game of the regular season nearing, it’s time to one, get the kids to school without a hitch, and two, hire a nanny. Now before you start to judge and ask how I can hire a stranger to raise these kids, let me remind you of one very important fact: there are five of them! There is no way I could take care of them, Landon, and prepare for the Westward Fall Expo. It just isn’t going to happen. Also, three, and most importantly, get a Salted Caramel mocha to start my day off right. Once that’s done, it’s time to handle shit.

  I know you don’t care about any of that, do you? All you want to know about is what happens now that we kissed, made out, and then I gave the guy blue balls and walked out of his room.

  Well, I’ll tell you. Obviously, I went back to the guest house, but not before Landon went to bed. Passed out actually, and thankfully he doesn’t have practice again until Saturday.

  I, on the other hand, lay awake the entire night not thinking about everything he said to me. I had to wonder, did he mean what he said or was it the concussion talking? Had they pumped him so full of narcotics that he was hallucinating? Was that it? Had he said all that in a drug-induced fog?

  Fuck me. What if he didn’t mean any of it? Or worse, what if he did?

  It’s something I could torture myself thinking about for the next hundred hours, but while he’s now in bed sleeping off the effects of the Vicodin I gave him, it’s my responsibility to get these crazy little monsters to school for their first day.

  Making my way from the guest house to the main house, I let myself in the back door, through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen. Never did I think I’d be in a home with a butler’s pantry. It’s crazy to think that before I met Landon, none of this would have been possible. I’d still be working at the tattoo shop and living with Cat in that shitty apartment above the Korean restaurant that made everything in our closet smell like kimchi.

  Standing in the kitchen, I sip my newly acquired mocha, thanks to Cat and Marley running out and getting them this morning. Turns out, Marley’s a huge Starbucks fan, claiming their coffee doesn’t taste the same in the south.

  While using Pinterest as a guide, I pack each kid a gourmet meal specifically designed for them. You know, heart-shaped cucumber sandwiches and those little apple slices with peanut butter and raisins meant to look like happy faces. That kind of shit.

  Now, do you believe for one second I did all that?

  If you guessed no, you’d be right. I don’t do any of that. I’m not at all ashamed to admit I hired a chef for Landon and he’s premade their lunches and conveniently labeled them with their names. All I have to do is grab them out of the fridge. Some might say that’s lazy… and some would say it’s genius. I’m going to go with genius.

  While I’m waiting for the kitchen to turn into a madhouse of kids wanting and needing shit, I scroll through Instagram. I check Alessa’s feed first, curious whether she posted anything last night after she and Landon broke up.

  Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. And yet, I’m kind of disappointed. At least she could have posted one of those sad Wordables quotes about being stronger without a man like every other woman when they have a breakup. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?

  Braylee approaches me, her hands on her hips. “Are you serious?”

  I turn to face her, wanting to burst out laughing. There is absolutely nothing girlie about Braylee. She wears basketball shorts and Under Armour like she has endorsement deals with them. Only now, because of the private school, she’s wearing a skirt and a bow in her hair. Awkwardly, I pat the top of her pretty curly auburn hair. “You look beautiful.”

  “Yeah, well,” she says as she tugs her underwear out of her butt, “I feel like I’m stuck inside a JoJo video. Why do I have to wear this crap?”

  “Because the school makes all the kids wear uniforms,” I point out, slowly sipping my warm salty chocolate caramel goodness. I’m not sure what’s better, the pumpkin spice, or the salted caramel mocha. I think it’s a toss-up. “It’s only for six hours a day.”

  That is probably the worst thing I could have said to her. Her head looks like it’s going to spin around in rage. “Six hours! Why do we have to go so long?”

  I shrug. “Those are the rules. I don’t make them. And it’s not that long.”

  “Yes, it is!”

  “Cool it with the dramatics.” I turn her around toward the stairs. “Now go brush your teeth. We have to leave in twenty minutes.”

  Braylee stomps off, yanking at her underwear again as she climbs the stairs. Adler passes her in the process, smiling at me. He’s a morning person, always smiling and bright-eyed the moment he wakes up. I have to admit, I’m jealous he can be up and ready to go that quickly, but it goes to show you he’s exactly like Landon. I swear, the moment his eyes pop open, he could jump up and start running plays if he needed.

  Adler stops in front of me wearing his navy blue slacks, gray long-sleeve button-down shirt, and maroon tie. He looks like a mini Landon with his hair artfully sculpted to stick out in the front and shaved close on the sides.

  “What’s for breakfast?” he asks, popping up on the stool beside me. “I’m starving.” He then peeks at my coffee. “Where’s mine?”

  I slide my cup away from him. “You’re too young for coffee.”

  Like clockwork, Marley walks in the kitchen, her hair curled and her backpack on her shoulder. Adler points his finger at the cup in her hand. “How come Marley gets some?”

  “Because she got up this morning and went and got it with Cat,” I tell him, digging through the pantry for the cinnamon bagels Adler loves so much.

  It’s been three weeks since the kids came into our lives and you know, I’m proud to admit I know what they like to eat for breakfast now. I hand him the bagel and the individual packet of cream cheese. You can’t give him a container of it because he likes to take a bite of the bagel, then scoop the cream cheese into his mouth. For sanitary purposes, we use the squeeze packets now. It’s weird, but not as weird as Nalani’s chicken nugget obsession. She eats them with squeezable applesauce. If you’re confused, picture her taking a dinosaur chicken nugget, squeezing a good amount of applesauce in the center, and then eating them one by one while saying, “Aww, cute,” before each bite.

  It’s a few minutes until seven. Adler’s finished his cream cheese with a side of bagel, and he’s wearing most of it. Nervously, he fidgets with his tie and stands at the door. He motions up the stairs with a nod. “Where’s Uncle Landon? Isn’t he taking us?”

  Kneeling to his level, I drop my bag on the floor next to the door and attempt to wipe the cream cheese off his tie. “No, he’s sleeping.”

  “Does his head hurt?” Haisley asks, trying to get her jacket on. It’s going to be a while because she’s spinning in circles searching for the armhole that’s inside out.

  “A little bit, but he’s going to be fine.” I don’t want to worry them, and knowing Landon, he will be back to normal when he wakes up. Maybe a little loopy for a few days, but, essentially, as good as can be for someone who is potentially crazy as fuck for playing a sport where one of the main objectives is to tackle him.

  Like I’m Wonder Woman, I grab hold of Haisley to stop her spinning with one hand and keep the other on Adler’s tie. That’s when Nalani comes walking into the room carrying her diaper in her hand.

  We really need to work on potty training. Note to self: make that a requirement when hiring a nanny today. Must be proficient in potty training.

  “We’re going to be late!” Braylee points out, hauling her backpack over her shoulder. If there’s anything Braylee hates more than uniforms, it’s being late. And that, friends, she has in common with Landon. It throws off his entire day if he’s late even by a minute.

  Standing there in the foyer, I try to think if I’m missing anything. Marley, Braylee, Haisley, and Adler are ready to go. I even count their heads to make sure I have them all lined up. Now for Na
lani. Cat’s in the kitchen, so I yell to her to grab me a diaper and meet me in the garage.

  I manage to get everyone in the car when Cat holds up the diaper and looks into the car. “Is this supposed to go on one of them?”

  My head whips around to the back seat. “Shit. The baby.” Rushing back inside, I find her on the counter licking the other half of Adler’s bagel he didn’t eat, bare butt on the marble.

  She waves to me. “Hi.”

  I can’t help but smile. “C’mon, you little nugget.”

  That gets her. “Nuggets? Hungry. I eat?”

  I hand her an applesauce squeeze from the fridge, carrying her into the garage. “Here. I’ll get you nuggets to dip later.”

  The moment I have her in the car, Haisley points out, “She’s naked!”

  “I know.” I reach over the seat to the diaper Cat’s holding.

  Nalani shakes her head. “No.” Then she pushes my hands away.

  “You have to wear something.” Or does she? I have her in the car. Does she really need clothes?

  Impatiently, Adler peeks his head over the seat. “Can we please go?”

  Checking the time, I realize we are in fact going to be late for their first day of school and the panic in his eyes has me leaving with Nalani naked for now. I mean, it can’t be the worst thing in the world, right?

  I will regret those words here in about, oh, thirteen minutes.

  It happens when we’re in the drop-off line. That’s when everything goes to shit. Did you know there are actual “drop-off” guidelines at schools? I had no idea. Either I don’t remember any of this shit growing up, or times have changed.

  “There’s a drop-off line?” Cat asks, staring at the dozens of orange cones and women in vests patrolling the line. It’s some serious shit.

  “Who knew it had gotten so complicated.” I’ll tell you one thing, it’s fairly apparent the tuition here is in the double digits judging by the vehicles in line. In front of me is a Tesla. His electric car-driving ass needs to move.

  “Well, we wouldn’t have known anyway. We walked to school, remember?”

  I side-eye Cat, trying not to remember high school. And then I look in the rearview mirror to see Adler frowning at the car ahead of me, his jaw clenching in anger. The last thing I want to do is ruin his first day.

  “C’mon!’ I honk my horn when the Tesla in front of me refuses to move.

  Cat reaches for her door handle. “I’ll go see what his problem is.”

  I reach for her hand to stop her. “No, you won’t.”

  Cat has this problem of saying what’s on her mind with no regard to consequences. So no, she can’t handle this. I can though, and before this little boy in the back seat develops a stomach ulcer over the start time of school, I’m going to deal with it.

  You know when you’re feeling good, and you’re thinking, shit, girl, don’t mess with me. I’m a fucking boss today, and then you spill your coffee all down the front of you and realize you ain’t no goddamn boss. You’re tired #AF. So tired that you forget you’re not even wearing a bra and approach a man in a Tesla because he’s too shitting arrogant to follow directions and move with the flow of traffic in the drop-off line.

  And that’s me, the tired #AF, who did in fact dribble mocha on her white shirt and regrettably, isn’t wearing a bra. But I don’t pay any mind to those details or the fact it’s starting to rain and, I’m knocking on the window of said man’s car, and he’s staring at my tits, his cell phone in his hand. I swear to fuck, if he snaps a picture, I’ll shove that motherfucker so far up his hole it’ll come out his mouth.

  “Excuse me, but you’re blocking the line,” I tell him, darting my eyes to his back seat when I see a small hand rise. “Can you please move forward?”

  Don’t look at the man just yet because do you see that little devil in the back seat? The little redhaired one flipping me off? Doesn’t he look like that kid from Problem Child?

  I fight the urge to return the gesture when the father smiles, glances at my tits again and asks, “Excuse me?”

  I motion forward to the five-car gap between him and the car in front of him. “Move forward so we can all get through the line.”

  Mr. Tesla eyes my appearance from the no bra, the nipple rings I’m sure are showing through my shirt, and my tattoos. Some people see them as an impulsive moment that leaves a permanent mark of a drunken mistake. Tattoos to most are a misconception of owning your identity in the world. And that’s fine if that’s what they mean to you. But to some, it’s about proclaiming who you are without words. It’s an artist’s way of bringing their deepest fears to life.

  I don’t exactly look like the kind of housewife dropping their children off at this school wearing their Hermes bags and driving around in their Urus Lamborghinis. I’m more like the chick this dude sees cleaning his house.

  “You’re uh….” He pauses, drops his eyes to my tits again, then looks up at me with a furrowed brow. I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Stop staring at me. Yes, I’m not wearing a bra. And yes, I have nipple rings. Now are you going to pull forward or should I go around you?”

  He clears his throat. “Yeah, I’ll pull forward. Sorry.”

  “Good.”

  Mr. Tesla makes good on his promise, and I make my way back to my car, only to be honked at myself. I had no idea dropping kids off at school was this much of an ordeal. It’s a brutal atmosphere here. Bloody brutal.

  I pull up about ten feet; only we’re still ten feet from the drop-off sign. “Um, just get out here,” I tell the kids, fearing the whole late thing.

  “We can’t,” Braylee tells me, pointing to the sign. “It says drop-off there.”

  “I know, but you’re going to be late.”

  Adler shakes his head, reaching for the door handle. “Fine, but the consequences are on you.”

  I laugh. “I think I can handle the orange cone lady.”

  I’m wrong. So very wrong. And I’m going to tell you why. You see that woman pointing her finger at me? Orange cone lady. I’ve apparently pissed her off.

  “You can’t drop off here!” she screams, then jabs her finger to the sign. “No drop-offs before that point.”

  Adler immediately shuts the door and sits up straight in the seat. For good measure, he even buckles himself in. “Told ya.”

  “You’re such a pussy,” Braylee mutters to him, shaking her head with embarrassment.

  Cat and I whip our heads around. “Dude, don’t call your brother a pussy.”

  Braylee rolls her eyes, tracing raindrops on the window with her finger. “I can when he’s being one.”

  I’m about to tell her all the reasons why she shouldn’t call him that, reasons I haven’t come up with yet, but orange cone lady is taping on my window. “You can’t drop off here!” she yells again, because apparently, I didn’t hear her the first time.

  I roll down the window. “Isn’t this close enough?”

  “No, it’s not,” Orange cone lady exclaims, her white hair curling from the misty rain. “Clearly you’re new here, pull into the parking spot.”

  I do what she says and that sets all the kids off, especially Marley this time who thinks this must be the worst thing in the world. “Great, we’re new here, and this is totally embarrassing. We’re getting pulled over by the drop-off police!”

  I think she’s being overly dramatic, but I get it, this morning hasn’t gone according to plan at all.

  I’m not entirely sure what to think of this orange cone lady. Frankly, she scares the shit out of me, and I don’t spook easily. I feel like I should tell her my safe word.

  “Rules are here for a reason,” she says the moment I’m in the parking spot. “You’re not above the law.” Law? Is she fucking serious? Then to further piss me off, she adds, “You’re setting a terrible example to your children looking for guidance.” She too eyes my tattoos and the fact that yes, I’m still not wearing a bra, as if to say my appearance has everything
to do with my parenting style, should I have a style. I want to point out to her that they’re not my kids, I’m not a mother, and she has no right to yell at me. It’s my first fucking day of the school year and this drop-off routine. No need to castrate me over ten feet.

  I start off with, “What the fuck do you know?” Just kidding. I don’t say that. I want to, but I begin with, “I’m sorry,” in an attempt to diffuse this woman and her angry gray eyes, who strangely reminds me of a scary version of Mrs. Doubtfire. “I dropped them off ten feet from the official drop-off zone area, yes, but you have no right to judge me or how I’m parenting my kids.” I motion behind me to the kids who are all staring at me with wide eyes. “Go ahead, get out and walk to class.” They do as I tell them, and I turn back to the lady. “Tomorrow, I will use the correct drop-off procedures.”

  The lady stands there, water dripping off her nose as the kids file out of the car and across the parking lot to the school. “Just remember, it’s for their safety.”

  I nod. “I’m all about safety.” And just as those words leave my mouth, Nalani pops up from the back seat, naked as the day she was born, having undone her seat belt, and smiles at the lady.

  “Hi!” she screams in my ear and slaps her applesauce-covered hand to my face.

  She’s literally smothered from head to toe in applesauce. I have to hand it to her, not only did I not know there was that much applesauce in one of those packets, but the kid’s thorough for sure. Cat licks Nalani’s hand. “Ooh, it’s the apple cinnamon kind. My favorite.”

  Clearly, yes, I have everything under control. #fuckedAF

  Draw – An offensive play where the quarterback drops back or stands in the pocket as if to pass and then runs the ball himself or hands it off to a running back.

  With the kids safely in school and Nalani down for her nap, it’s time to interview nannies. Lord knows after this morning and the drop-off from hell, I need it. I have a newfound respect for stay-at-home moms who successfully navigate the drop-off every morning, and completely understand why some make them ride the bus. And while I’m on the whole “stay-at-home mom” thing, let me point out something else. It’s ridiculous what moms do, without pay, and they rarely complain about it. The next time I see a beaten-down mother in Target with her hair in a mom bun and coffee stains on the white T-shirt she wore to bed the night before, along with her worn-out and faded hot pants (these are what I refer to as yoga pants), I’m totally high-fiving her and buying her another coffee.